Constantly Evolving

Perched Eagle?

2012-01-30T23:52:00.002-06:00

Leaders are like eagles: they soar above us, blah, blah, blah. It's important to remember though that if they don’t come down from their lofty altitudes, they don’t eat. That's a terribly important fact! Managers who fail to dive into the everyday happenings of the departments they manage might be courting failure.

It's easy to get comfortable in your office. Technology allows us to send out instructions and notes without the challenges that come with actual human interaction. Yet it's that interaction that makes you the human influence machine that you were hired to be as opposed to some mythical figure that only appears to crush the spirits of the office masses. There are indicators that signal you may be a perched eagle. Be on the lookout for these warning signs:

Oil in water. You step out of your office and the effect looks like someone dropped some oil in water. People spread away from the drop--you--as fast as they can. If that is the case, it could be that you are not seen as approachable. It could also mean that people just don't like you or the way you talk to them. It might mean that the only time they see you is when you're dishing out orders or pointing out faults. I've met managers that revel in the ability to seemingly strike fear in others and love how powerful it makes them feel. If this is you, it may not be long before someone notices these traits and speaks up. It might just be your boss.

You don't know anybody! If you walk through the cubicles and it's as if you're among strangers, it's a good sign that you're out of touch. It's time to get out of the office with the goal of having a personal conversation with an employee you're not familiar with. It's a good practice that will make you more human to the very real humans that work in your office.

You're not invited to the party. Whether it's a social gathering within the office in celebration of an occasion in an employee's life or a party outside of work, it's good for you to have at least been invited. If you haven't been invited, it might be a sign that people don't feel you'd even want to know. It might mean that others feel you're aloof. I normally caution against too much social interaction, but it's good to participate periodically. You're not a cyborg and it's good to occasionally prove that by having a light beer or two with the fellas and gals.

"What's so funny?" When the response you get is "Ah, it's nothing really. I mean, you wouldn't get it," then you need to leave the nest more often. Show yourself and don't be afraid to smile. If it doesn't hurt your face too much, try to laugh in the presence of others. Go ahead. It's really okay.

“I don’t wanna get involved in office politics.” I've heard friends say this and usually it's masking a weakness. Too often, they don't have confidence in their interpersonal skills and therefore decide that any interaction is "office politics." The truth is as a manager, "office politics" is your job. Buried in the icky connotations that the word "politics" evokes is the true meaning of the word. Basically its the whole of our human interactions within an organization. If you don't see that as part of your job description, you may want to evaluate your professional existence as a manager. To quote a mentor of mine when sharing his secrets of managerial success: "It's the people, stupid!"

If you're a leader, you are an eagle! Spread your wings and...yeah, whatever. Put away those wings every once in awhile. Get out of the office. Have an actual conversation that doesn't involve the internet or texting. Shake hands. Get to know your people! A manager who doesn't not only leads a less than fulfilling professional existence, but might just find themselves grounded permanently.

"Don't Tell Me You..."

2012-01-19T22:26:00.001-06:00

I can remember the biting comment as vividly today as if itwas just said. I was still a teenager,giving one of my first briefings as an officer candidate to a group ofhigher-ranking cadets and cadre. I wasnervous, and it was only compounded by the fact that I probably wasn’t asprepared as I should’ve been. The first words to come out of my mouth as Istarted my presentation were, “I’m sorry. I didn’t get a lot of sleep lastnight and…” That line of remarks didn’t last long. One of the senior cadets saidto me “Hey Nickerson, do us a favor. Don’t tell us you suck. We’ll figure thatout soon enough on our own.”

The laughter that ensued was stinging, but it only solidifiedthe lesson that I’ve applied ever since. Convincing others that your ideas areworthy of their time and that they should listen to you is hard enough.Informing your audience, in essence, that you are ill-prepared and probably don’tknow the subject enough to be speaking on it doesn’t do you any favors. Infact, it can ruin your credibility right up-front.

I witnessed this practice countless times when I went on totrain cadets myself and have seen it often in other professional settings. Thespeaker, who is probably very knowledgeable on the subject they are about tospeak, starts their presentation by apologizing for their inadequacies. WHY DOTHEY DO THAT?! It comes in many forms:

“I really didn’t get a lot of time to put this together…”

“The information in this briefing is a bit dated, but…”

“I’m not that much of a speaker…”

“I’m not really the right person for this, but…”

Each of us has heard versions of these precursors. Whatnormally ensues is a futile attempt by the speaker to climb out of the holethey dug at the beginning of their presentation. This practice of beginning with an excuse is normally anattempt to apologize for some perceived weakness that weighs on the speaker’sconfidence.

Do yourself a favor. Before you conduct your next presentation—beit formal or informal—check to see if you do any form of this. If you do, STOP IT!Nothing damages your ability to win your argument, make the sale, or leadothers than to tell them up-front why they shouldn’t listen to you. Don’t tellthem at the outset, “I’m not the right person to be saying this and I’mprobably wasting your time, but here goes!” Or, to paraphrase the senior cadetfrom that day, “Don’t tell me you suck.”

The truth is if you’re asked for your opinion, hired to sella product, or put in a leadership role, it’s probably for a good reason.Somebody at some point saw your potential and your abilities. They believed inyou, so believe in yourself! You don’t “suck”, so stop unintentionally sayingyou do. Your audience will appreciate what you’re saying that much more.

Another Day, Another Victory!

2012-01-17T11:49:00.000-06:00

The lyrics in the John Mayer song “No Such Thing” claim “I am invincible as long as I’m alive.” And why not believe that? Every single time you wake up it’s a victory over the challenges you faced the day before! The fact that you have another opportunity to conquer the things hindering your success should be celebrated. And you’ve done it all of your life.

If you’re thirty years old, you’ve fought the battles in this war called life and won 10,950 times! You’ve beat illnesses. You’ve beat embarrassment. You’ve beat rejection. Think about the worst day of your life. On that day, despite all of the things that threatened you, you reached the end of the day. The next day, you took the first steps towards leaving that horrible day behind. YOU MADE IT!

Think about that the next time you face seemingly insurmountable turmoil. You’re going to make it; you’ve done it thousands of times before. When you look at tomorrow’s coming storm and it seems so daunting that you don’t know if you’ll survive the day, rest assured that you will. You’ve only done it every day of your life.

Surviving The Real Housewives of...

2011-10-26T09:56:00.000-05:00

The reunion show for The Real Housewives of New Jersey was on our living room television. My heart rate quickened, my blood pressure rose and I became suddenly angry. And that was before I even turned my eyes to the television and started watching it. My life is stressful enough without listening to catty women attempt to verbally scratch each others eyeballs out. The drama erupting from the interaction between these angry, petty women is palpable, stoked by producers that no doubt create opportunities for these women to go at it. This spectacle, though, is catnip to the human female species (and evidently gay men) as evidenced by the "Real Housewives" Franchise success.

Frankly, I don't understand why it's so popular and I guess I'm not supposed to. Nor are any normal, average heterosexual men in America. So, if you get caught up in a "Let's just have a quiet night of watching TV" moment with your wife that turns into an excruciating experience not unlike a Gitmo interrogation technique that is The Housewives of Fillintheblank, here are a few coping methods:

Drink. Whenever the cursor dances over a recorded episode of "The Real Housewives" stored on our DVR, I take the time to consider one of the many liquors we keep in our bar. Or perhaps it's time to get an early start to the weekend by participating in your very own Oktoberfest! Oh, I can already hear the accordion and tuba in my head. Drink enough and you'll hardly hear the whiny strains coming from a privileged, yet suffering lady of the social circuit because her former best friend preferred to attend her daughter's sweet sixteen party and not a charity polo match or art gallery opening...or something similar and sickening.

Hurt yourself. Inflicting pain upon ones self is not something I condone nor recommend. In this case, though, a razor to your thigh might take your mind off of women arguing over who is copying whose tacky fashion sense. Plus, if you're lucky, you may end up in a hospital emergency room, far away from the pointless arguments engaged in by these wacky ladies.

Prisoner exchange. Keep your ear to the ground and find a fellow sufferer. Suggest a night where his wife can come over while you and him go watch something--anything--related to sports and competition. Your wife will think you benevolent and thoughtful and almost forget the credit card slips proving that you and your buddy seem to be spending a lot of time at Hooters.

Become familiar with your smart phone. There is no reason that you can't be productive during this period. Your smart phone is a gateway to the world, away from the nails-on-a-chalkboard exchanges occurring on your beautiful high definition screen. While your wife stares drop-jawed at one woman claiming another is a bitch for the umpteenth time this season, you can do the things you need to do. Buy tickets to sporting events. Arrange a golf outing. Set up a hunting and fishing expedition to Alaska. You know; things that men are supposed to do...hunting and gathering, gladiator type stuff.

Honey-do list. Yeah, you've been avoiding it. But damn! Is there a better time to get stuff done than when the alternative is watching some baritone woman who can't sing or dance chase her dream of musical stardom? The answer, my friend, is a resounding no! So go clean the garage. Go mow the lawn. Go paint the house. Go put in a backyard fire pit. Go fight the rabid raccoon that lives in the shed. Do it! Do it now! It's time to escape brother...or as a Housewife from New Jersey would say: "excape".

Men, it's time to take back our time! They may take our televisions, but they'll never take our testosterone! (Hey, do me a favor and don't tell my wife I wrote this.)

Me, on Leave, in a Wal-Mart Parking Lot

2011-04-20T12:53:00.001-05:00

I know that as I begin to plan out the free time I'll have post deployment, I'll inevitably end up in the parking lot of my hometown Wal-Mart. Also inevitably, I'll run into people I haven't seen in over a decade and we will engage in an uncomfortable conversation about nothing of significance. But why not make it fun? I will attempt to slip at least one of the following statements into that conversation in hopes I'll be left to shop for frozen pizza and shampoo in peace. Or at least it'd be a more interesting conversation. Free free to send me your own.

"I kinda remember you, but you weren't really in the "in" crowd were you?"

"'A machine? No! I've been working in stone for decades!' So he took the sculpture. It's not everyday you see a pope blush!"

"Wow! I hardly recognized you. You were always dressed so nicely back then."

"We get to the top of that rock and I turn to the sherpa and I'm like, 'Jeez. I'm the only one left? We started out with eight.'"

"My career is going good, but not as good as my side business. Have you ever heard of Amway?"

"NASA likes to make their training sound hard. I mean, it is, but most with my IQ and superior fitness level breeze through."

"...so I said, 'Really Barack; what else are you doing in the next four years?'"

"Formula 1 Racing is glamorous, sure, but sometimes I don't know what I'm doing with my life."

"How about these gas prices, huh? I'm almost regretting buying the jet. But hey, might as well spend it. You're only gonna make more!"

"Sure, kids aren't heavy, but by the time I ran in to get the third, I was hitting muscle failure. And the house was burning out of control! Thank God for adrenaline, right?"

"I'm in the best shape of my life...but look at me. Mr. OBVIOUS!"

"Movies are fun and definitely more glamorous. But let's be honest: starring in a series gives you a regular income. You take that kind of stuff for granted in showbusiness."

"I managed to get the traffic stopped, but by the time I got back to the limo, it was too late. The princess had already left us."

"I just tossed the ball back and said, 'Brett, what's one more season?' Worst advice I've ever given."

"Wasn't your mom an alcoholic or something? No? It was your dad then, right?"

"The villagers were so gracious. One of the children at the field hospital--a tent really; that's all I could afford at the time--she asked me, 'Mister, are you a doctor?' I laughed, lifted her into my arms and said, "No my child. I have no formal training. I heal with love."

"It seems like an easy choice--the mother or her child. But I just threw my shoulders back, looked that warlord in the eyes and said, "No deal. We're all walking out of this compound tonight."

"You think it looks beautiful on the travel channel? It's so much more beautiful in person! But most palaces are when you're the guest of royalty."

"I wanted to go with 'iSongs'. They wanted 'iTunes'. I still got paid, so whatever."

"Elin's going crazy and I'm trying to calm her down. Tiger gets in his vehicle and I yell, 'You get out of here Tiger! But you need to really think about what's important in your life.' I think we both knew his answer though. So disappointing. I'm sorry, but no matter how many times he calls, I will not talk with him."

"I cut right and saw nothing but paydirt. And then I felt a pop. Two minutes into a national championship season and I'm riding a cart off the field."

"He was so scared, but I just whispered 'Spread your arms; trust me.' I'll never forget the sound of his laughter as he screamed 'I'm flying! I'm really flying!' In a way, I was too."

"You see, plutonium-284 is practically harmless though it'll give you a bad case of heartburn. Now 285? That'll give you and 300,000 of your friends some real heartburn. You know what I mean?"

"The international press goes on and on about the negotiations, but the treaty really came together when I showed them both that we all have skin, bones, hearts, souls...dreams. I'm sorry. It always makes me misty."

"I said, 'I think he's got some talent. If you don't sign him, I will.' Justin Beiber. Sometimes the big ones get away."

I'll let you know how this experiment goes.

Bagram Gym Coach

2010-12-17T11:42:00.003-06:00

The gym here on Bagram has become a sanctuary of sorts. I plug my earbuds in and forget about the demands of my day. I've taken to listening to dramatic instrumental music not because I'm a snob, but because it's soothing and it doesn't have those pesky words to think about. Words distract my solace. So do people.

I was conducting a lift that I've started to perform because I'm constantly bombarded by people telling me I need to work on my core. Core this and core that. "The core is the center of the body. If you're core isn't healthy, than you're not healthy." "The problem with traditional lifting programs is it ignores the core." "Core, coRE, CORE!" Jeez. I got it! So, I've started to incorporate core training into my workouts because everybody knows that (fill in the blank with nitnoid fact about core training).

Anyway, it's less of a lift than a motion. I take a 45 pound universal bar and hold it over my head and perform a squat. It keeps my CORE rigid and straight and forces me to tighten my CORE, thus increasing the chances I will outlive my weak-cored great-grandchildren. Apparently, though, I was performing some sort of fitness crime. I watched in the mirror as this concerned citizen dropped his weights and hastily covered the thirty feet between us to tap me on my back. I pulled out my right earbud and looked at him as if to ask, "Is there a bengal tiger about to jump on my back that you're going to warn me about," because the sense of urgency in his approach conveyed the possibility of just that. There was no bengal tiger in the gym.

His breathy warning started out with, "Hey, I'm not one to give out advice on weightlifting..." He should have stopped right there. I advise against telling others prior to dispensing advice that you have absolutely no authority or expertise on the subject you're about to communicate thoughts on. Nothing decreases your audience's confidence in you like starting with, "Look, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about, but here goes..." Yet this gentlemen thought this the best way to introduce his sage wisdom.

His urgent advice? "You should NEVER get up on your toes like that." I intentionally induced an awkward moment by holding my annoyed stare at him for at least three seconds longer than I should have or he deserved. My immediate thought was, "Really? Is there a danger I may spontaneously burst into flames or suffer a rupture of the spleen?" Instead all that came out was an obviously annoyed, "Uh, yeah," which was a shortened version of, "Uh, yeah. GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME BEFORE I BREAK YOUR PELVIS YOU FREAK!"

I was done with that particular exercise...or so I thought. Just because of the gentlemen's intrusion, I didn't do one or two additional sets, but three additional sets of fifteen! And I made sure to practically stand on my toes not unlike Michael Jackson during his Thriller heyday. I felt him staring at me in my periphery as if mentally willing my tibias and/or calf muscles to snap in half so he could stand over me screaming "I told you so! What the hell were you thinking?!" Yet he was out of luck this day. My legs stood strong. Of course even if my legs vaporized, I would have proudly waddled out of the gym with my head held high just to keep him from having any sort of satisfaction.

A Little Christmas Warmth

2010-11-30T12:42:00.001-06:00

A friend of mine recently posted a Facebook status that asked "What 'little things' put you in the Christmas Spirit?" After the typical smart alec answers flashed into my head, a random item popped up. "Wood burning stove". I stopped and wondered where the heck it came from. Then, I remembered.

When I was seventeen, I volunteered to participate in a Christmas delivery program. We met at a high school gymnasium and gathered donated food and toys and loaded them up into cars. We were handed a route with a list of families and were told what to take to each. My friends and I were going to hang out, horse around, and be able to say we did something interesting during the past weekend, though I realize now that the day had a profound impact on me.

We had gone all over the county delivering much-appreciated food to families that didn't look all that different from our own yet were down on their luck as evidenced by their living conditions. One family was gathered in a trailer and in the living room stood a hospital bed where grandpa slept. They smiled but asked us to please be quiet.  Being quiet was not a problem.  The atmosphere in the car we rode in quickly went from jovial, or what my Dad would describe as "playin' grabass", to somber and introspective. The day taught us a lot about life. Real life.

The last stop was out in the country. Within an opening surrounded by trees stood a small cabin with smoke billowing from a chimney. One of my best friends and I went into the trunk and pulled out the toys and food and marched onto the porch and knocked on the door. I remember expecting grandpa from Hee-Haw to answer, but was surprised to see a young man maybe a few years older than me. He barely opened the door and then quickly ushered us in. Behind him was a pregnant young woman--his wife--with a little girl curled around her leg.  They stared at us with slightly embarrassed smiles and apologized that they didn't have any place for us to sit. There was only one room that I was aware of with a small kitchenette in the corner.  There was no television that I could see, just a couch that looked very used.

We spoke our often repeated chorus of "Merry Christmas" and "Glad we could get out here with the weather and all," but we could hardly hide the sympathy in our voices during this delivery. It made the experience that much more uncomfortable.  Their relatively young appearance only added to the awkward feelings in the room.  I don't remember the young couple saying much at all to us as we prepared to leave as quick as we could, but I remember what the husband said right before he opened the door to let us out.  "I'm sorry I rushed you all in. I probably won't walk you out, but that's not because I don't appreciate what you're doing.  I just don't want to lose the heat. This wood stove's about all we got." I took in the wood-burning stove cooking in the corner of the room and smiled at the little girl waving goodbye from behind her mother's leg. We waved back.

I'm sure we all grew up a little bit that day. Christmas had always been a day a day off of school, a new toy, new clothes, the latest gadget. That little bit of community service during the holiday season, though, taught me that our abundance is fleeting and we should never take it for granted. That young family didn't have much, but they had each other and a warm home to share each other's love and company. For the rest of my life, a wood-burning stove will remind me of Christmas and the importance of sharing it in the warmth and comfort of our family's love.

The Family Business

2010-11-11T13:09:00.001-06:00

I often tell people I'm in the "Family Business". It garners a smile from most people who know me because they know that soldiering is what we Nickersons do. I joined the Army for a lot of reasons, but can't help but credit most of my motivation coming from years waiting at the door as a little boy for my Dad to come home in his OD (Olive Drab) green uniform. Back then, he was my hero. On days like Veterans Day, I'm reminded that he still is.

My brother is still serving while my sister is a disabled veteran. I appreciate them more and more as the years go by. My cousin Dale served in the Army as an artilleryman and my cousin Dawn, his sister, serves soldiers every day at her job at Fort Drum. Their father served in the Army as well.

Recently, I learned my cousin Jackie is joining the Army Reserve and I'm really proud of her too.

Happy Veterans Day to all those serving and who have served in my family's "business".

Missing the Tube

2010-11-07T12:16:00.002-06:00

When you are away fighting to win America's wars and protecting the freedoms of her citizens, you can't help but inventory all of the precious things you're missing back home. I miss my wife and boy more than I can express in words. I miss the beautiful home that I left behind. I miss the quiet nights sitting in my living room with my dog in my lap while I read a novel. All those things top my list of things that agitate my emotions as I look back on our wonderful United States of America. Topping the list of other things, though, is my television.

I am blessed to be in a location that gives me reasonable and reliable access to the Armed Forces Network, or AFN for those that are familiar with it. The problem is my schedule doesn't allow me the opportunity to properly veg out and reach a full drooling state. That's when you are truly watching television! I'm really not a big fan of television (Note to those who now think me an uppity horse's ass: The previous statement doesn't make me a horse's ass. I'm not saying that the way people who are waaaayyyy too into themselves say "I really don't like television unless it's PBS or C-Span, blah, blah, blah." It's more of a "Good God I'm tired and don't have time to watch TV because I'd rather be sleeping because I have to work tomorrow" type of thing.). I do watch a lot of football though. Anyone who knows me recognizes that I have an unhealthy addiction to televised football and most of my weekends five months out of the year are spent sitting in front of my dedicated football-viewing television switching between the games and watching my fantasy football teams beat the snot out of lesser fantasy football owners on my laptop (Booyah! Sorry. I had to say it). But other than that, most of my television viewing is watching what my wife watches. Though I'm apt to walk out on most of her favorites (like the Real Housewives of Fill-in-the-blank-Metropolis), there are a few shows we watch together that I--so far from home--miss watching:

1) Whale Wars. My wife and I watch this show for different reasons I'm sure. That doesn't mean I know specifically why she watches it. For me, it's in hopes that the environmental terrorist hippie nerds on the Good Ship Steve Irwin get defeated...again. I know that makes me a bit sick, but I've always had an issue with the self-righteous. I'll never forget watching an episode where one of the environmental terrorist hippie nerds on a speedy zodiac boat is utterly appalled and pissed when the Japanese whalers start shooting at them. "They could kill one of us," he exclaimed. Uh, yeah. You think? I've got an idea: WHY DON'T YOU STOP THROWING STINKY ACID AT THEIR SHIPS?! The uber-nerdy executive officer of the ship has the unenviable job of defending the king of the self-righteous idiots: the hapless captain. I think they should present this show in leadership courses on how not to lead others.

Look, I don't want to see whales needlessly killed either. More than that, though, I don't want to see self-righteous, anti-industrial eco-terrorists on a vacation from their regular jobs as artists, street mimes, out-of-work actors, and trust-fund leeches get away without at least a near-death experience every episode. It warms my heart.

2) Renovation Realities. There is nothing like watching regular, everyday people tackle impossible home remodels without the help of anyone that knows what they're doing. I'm always waiting for the next hilarious nailgun accident or the two-story fall from the roof. Three stories you say? Never, that's just downright sick. But two stories and I'm doubled over in laughter. What would sweat and tears be without blood to round it all off?

3) Little Miss Perfect. I watch in awe as these nutty mothers yell at their beautiful little girls when they cry because their hairspray doesn't hold their hair to the compulsory three-foot height. Then, the viewers are rewarded for withstanding this torturous show by the CEO of Little Miss Perfect Pageants International Incorporated Worldwide--Michael--singing the Little Miss Perfect Pageant song, aptly named (I think) "Little Miss Perfect Pageant". Only one word can describe it: "Fabulous"! I laugh to tears and Lyndi laughs at me laughing at him. It actually injects a minute amount of joy into our lives.

4) Anything with little people. Preferably little people doing crap that I do every single day and getting multi-million dollar television contracts for it. Got it. They're short and it makes life that much harder. Maybe we can play this theme over in other varied life scenarios. Please come up with new ideas because there are NOT enough shows with little people. I think A&E has a whole wing in their headquarters buildings to come up with little people shows. I actually believe this.

5) Shows about competitive cake baking. I usually only give the show cursory glances until the point where they have to move the cakes. That is when I become truly engaged. I chew my fingernails in nervous hope that they drop the cakes. Don't judge me. That's the only reason why you watch too! It's like NASCAR for cake bakers (Because we only watch NASCAR for the wrecks. Don't believe me? Watch SportsCenter. What are they showing? BINGO! The wrecks. It's sick and twisted I know!). And I'm always confused because these competitions are normally in great vacation spots like Vegas. PEOPLE--you're in Vegas! Why are you in the audience at a cake competition?! "Hey baby, I think we should go watch Blue Man Group or Wayne Newton," he says. "No honey, I have a better idea! Let's go watch people make cakes for six hours," she says. If I am the guy in this scenario, I'd go just to yell out distractions as they carry the cake that grueling, treacherous five foot stretch of ground. I'm actually hoping they come up with competitive cake shows featuring just little people, though I'd feel worse about yelling the distractions. But only a little.

6) Dexter. That's it. Nothing clever. It's just a kickass show.

7) House Hunters International. This is a show I actually like myself. My wife and I long ago ditched the mere ho-hum of House Hunters and we now only watch the international version. Nothing stokes our dreams of living in overseas splendor like a quick thirty-minute episode of this show. Even so, there are always a few things that give me pause. First, why does it seem that every place an American tries to buy in Europe, well, sucks. "George had a two-hour layover in Italy and loved it. Now, he wants to leave his steady job with benefits in Newark and move to Tuscany to chase his dreams of becoming a glass sculptor." George, on a shoestring budget of a petty three-hundred fifty thousand dollars, is then shown three places that look not unlike World War II bomb shelters by a haughty European real estate agent in a turtleneck and a skirt that looks more appropriate on a fortune teller. George says, "Uh, there is no kitchen." Real estate agent responds, "Zis is no problem. We will fix." George smiles. George then notes, "There's no bathroom." Real estate agent responds, "It is with chickens...outside. Very quaint." Six months later, George is living in a moldy 400 square foot concrete bunker with a stylish Italian cot for a bed that doubles as a couch. Europe, you're off the Nickerson's list.

Our favorite episodes are what we call "the Beach Episodes". There's a special place on our DVR for these. I have come away with a few simple rules for house hunting in island nations:

a) I don't care how great the golf courses are; if there has been a ruling dictatorship in, oh, the last thirty years in the paradisio that you're shopping for your retirement home, you should probably reconsider. I'm sorry, but when Suzanne Hwang starts out with, "Recent reforms in Republica de filindeblanco have made foreign home ownership more palatable to the natives..." you should go find another island to spend your waning years! The wonderful vistas from the deck of your new home in Sandinista Commons just aren't worth the grief you will no doubt incur once the cameras stop taping.

b) Beware the $200 a month security fee. I've lived on a street where I had to pay a monthly security fee. Two malnourished guards in tattered uniforms trying to stay awake while keeping their AK-47s squarely in their lap aren't going to stop the cartel from making your retirement herb garden a, well, herb garden. "The secluded beach compound is far enough away from small arms fire to keep Martha and Hank secure for the rest of their lives." Yeah, Roy and Lyndi will never be Martha and Hank.

8) Hoarders. It always makes me look in my messy garage and wonder if I, too, am a hoarder. And then I wonder if I'm a hypochondriac. My throat hurts and I think I'm coming down with a cold...and a fever. Check my temperature.

9) Pawn Stars. I always come away wondering if my collection of baseball cards and/or period hats will cover my retirement costs. I could be sitting on a gold mine.

10) Dirty Jobs. How many ways can Mike Rowe make dealing with feces entertaining? Please Mike, eat the bat guano. Really. That's the only reason I watch the show.

I have all those great things like my family, Americana, rock 'n roll, picnics, ma, pa, and apple pie to return to the great US of A for and I can't wait to wrap myself up in it all. Rounding out my list of things to get home to are the aforementioned television gems. Warm up the TV Lyndi! I'm coming home soon.

Teenaged Hero

2010-11-06T12:40:00.001-05:00

I had a random memory the other day initiated by the strained vocals of Brian Johnson of AC/DC. Instantly I was taken back to a high school auditorium in central Kentucky. Bardstown I think. About twenty meters to my front was a stage fringed by faux velvet curtains twenty feet high. The center of the stage had a simple wooden podium and directly above it was a coat of arms of sort. It conveyed the high school's values, but I don't remember what they were; the "three R's" probably.

I was seated with a couple hundred other students spaced out in seats throughout the large auditorium. I imagined it smelled a bit like stale, stagnant air mixed with way too much cologne. Obsession. Polo. Eternity. Most of my high school memories are clouded by way too much cologne which we didn't know how to apply in moderation at that time. Unfamiliar yet pretty girls from other schools clumped together in cliques. They stole occasional stares and giggled at the expense of the new boys whose attention they drew. Me and the guys I sat with attempted to look cool and unflustered by their teasing interest. I'm sure in our heads we looked a bit like James Dean, occasionally smirking acknowledgement of their attention, though our raging hormones probably made us look about as calm as hyenas on crack.

The speech and debate tournament I was participating in was like a convention for artsy nerds. Nerdapalooza. Between our rated events, we attempted to impress each other with our knowledge of the world. The actors quoted their favorite movies and shared impressions of Oscar-winning actors. They dreamed openly about working with Stanley Kubrick and the sort. The debaters took every opportunity to quote their favorite politicians and historical figures, though they were more likely quoting something their Dad said. Those like me that participated in radio broadcasting just tried to be generally entertaining by being complete jackasses.

The result was a low hum of collected conversations interspersed with a loud laugh here and there. It was quiet and surprisingly calm enough without teacher supervision for our attention to be grabbed by any activity on the stage before us. A boy calmly walked to the stairs at stage right and then onto the stage. The activity was enough for me to tap the guy to my right and ask, "What the heck...?" They boy walked up to the microphone at the podium and tapped it loudly. He then pulled off his headphones and held the buds against the microphone. We were all transfixed and wondering what would come next. And then he hit play on his Walkman.

The first few strums of Angus Young's guitar blared throughout the auditorium, introducing the classic "You Shook Me All Night Long". The crowd of restless teenagers erupted in appreciation of his bold move. The boy held the microphone's head with one hand and presented the headbanging sign of the horns atop his outstretched arm. He held the pose the entire time a stern-looking teacher marched up the long aisle to stop him. In my memories, she has horn-rimmed glasses. If she didn't, she should have because it makes the memory more appropriate.

In my imagination, the boy in my memory is now probably a balding guy with a weight problem and possibly a skin condition. He has a regular, everyday job in a regular, everyday town. His wife settled for him instead of the doctor her mother always wanted her to marry. His kids are pretty sure that their underbed and/or closet monsters would rip him to shreds. But if I could, I'd call that guy up right now and remind him that for one moment about twenty years ago, he was a hero to hundreds of cheering teenagers. He was a rockstar! That's gotta count for something.

Proof I Am Now Officially Old

2010-10-22T05:05:00.002-05:00

I'm thirty-five years old ("My mother she told me so; Lord have mercy!" Sorry, I couldn't resist the Sugar Ray reference.). I used to think that I was pretty young and hip, but am slowly realizing that I'm, well, not. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm growing old. Below are twenty-five reasons why I'm sure I'm on the backside of Life's hill:

1) I'm watching Paranormal Activity and all I'm thinking about is whether they can get out of their mortgage or lease agreement.

2) I see a promo for Girls Gone Wild and I wonder what their parents think.

3) I worry about cholesterol.

4) I look at an old pizza sitting out overnight and actually worry about food poisoning before I eat it.

5) Gas mileage is a purchasing consideration when looking at vehicles to purchase.

6) I watch the news and no longer wonder how it might effect my life, I can actually make connections.

7) I exercise not to impress anyone, it's more about wanting to live long enough to enjoy my grandkids.

8) I'm getting really good at speaking in folksy parables. "You know, my Daddy used to say, 'Life is like a grape...'"

9) I grunt and wince when I get up out of a chair.

10) I shake my head disapprovingly at what kids wear.

11) My iPod has an abundance of instrumental music and I turn it down in consideration of others.

12) When I look back on what my parents said when I was young, I say things like, "You know, they were right."

13) I floss regularly.

14) I sometimes wear socks with sandals.

15) I talk about my pension and use credible numbers in my calculations.

16) I worry that I'm not getting enough fiber.

17) I watch "Cribs" and ask myself stuff like "Who needs all that space and stuff?" and wonder how much it costs to heat the place they're showcasing. Then I wonder why I didn't become a rapper.

18) I applaud Chik-fil-a for staying closed on Sunday...instead of complaining about them barring access for a day to the best chicken nuggets in the freakin' world!

19) I say things like "You guys go ahead. I gotta get up early tomorrow."

20) I see stuff from my childhood in antique stores...and I feel nostalgic in antique stores...and I go to antique stores.

21) I take a multivitamin and fish oil tablets daily and actually admit it.

22) When I get hurt--like twist an ankle--I wonder if I'll have the pain the rest of my life.

23) I ponder the color of my lawn and whether it's getting enough water.

24) I quote John Hughes' movies like it's second nature. Oh, and John Hughes is dead God rest his soul.

25) I've become snobby...about beer.

There are plenty of other reasons, but this is enough detrimental self-examination for one day.

"If Pigs Could Vote..."

2010-10-12T14:58:00.002-05:00

It is easy to look at the current squabbles in the realm of American politics and begin to wonder whether that thing in the approaching hand basket is indeed hell. The talking heads on the Sunday shows and the competing newscasts arouse our passions as much as the politicians. They both use convenient half-truths to fortify their rhetorical positions and, unfortunately, the constituencies on both sides eat it up. I'm not pointing fingers. I'm just as deserving of indictment. I'm just as guilty of the spouting off and the whole "eating it up" part. I'm a junkie for it. But someone I learned a tremendous amount from introduced me to Orson Scott Card's related quote and I think it provides a reminder of the skepticism we should employ when judging our politicians (and those that promote their platforms): "If pigs could vote, the man with the slop bucket would be elected swineherd every time, no matter how much slaughtering he did on the side."

There is much one can connote from my posting of this quote and relating it to the current political situation in America. One might deduce I'm jabbing a finger into the chest of those currently in power. Another may think I'm thumbing my nose at "greedy" corporations and their equally greedy advocates in Washington and state governments. Others may think, "Who the hell is Orson Scott Card? Roy continues to be a complete geek." The response I submit is a resounding "Yes!" I aim my finger at the collective political system and throw my criticisms its way. I gnash my teeth, curse, and throw very light, harmless pillows without sharp edges at the expensive televisions I own and wonder aloud what the world is coming to. But in that practice, I find hope.

You see, I read real-life stories that tell of those that try to influence their countries' political systems and the struggles they must endure even to the point of death. The hope I derive comes from the fact that my country's political revolutions don't have to come at the influential end of a rifle barrel, but the inky point of a pen. We have the means in our country to fix what many conclude is a broken political system. We are lucky, though, that our foundation--The United States Constitution--provides the mechanism to do that. God bless America! The way we fix our problems is to vote for whoever we feel can competently lead us out of our woes. We have the ability; we just have to employ it. I laugh at the often painted vignette where the curmudgeon is asked, "Well, did you vote?" and he answers, "No. What good would it do anyway?" This is one of the challenges our "broken" political system faces: concerned yet ultimately--as evidenced by their inaction--indifferent people. American people must vote.

I find hope in the fact that we have more access to more information than any other society in our world's history. This fact, I believe, is fully recognized and that abundance of information is being utilized. The problem is that it is selectively utilized to buoy preconceived notions about everything from global warming/temperature change/cooling/cow flatulence to the President's birthplace. Be skeptical! Throw aside biased analyses and pull together your own opinion. As a responsible member of the population, we must strive to research those that we commission to serve in our highest offices and not choose based on a candidate's ability to throw a football or because he looks good in a red tie with complimentary flag pin. American recognition of the importance of knowing its candidates beyond the superficial or his/her qualifications fluctuates depending on the political climate. We happen to be in a time of increased recognition. I hope we genuinely research those that we cast our ballots for this fall because our future depends on it (cliche alert!).

I ask, no, beg the six or seven people (including family) that read my meager thoughts when they have nothing better to do to please pay attention to this and ensuing elections. God blessed America with so many great gifts. One of those gifts is the ability for her people to cast a vote for those they find worthy of it. Another is the ability to find the unvarnished truth. We just have to chip off the varnish through unbiased research and open-minded analysis. Card's metaphorical analysis of our political system is true only insofar as we allow it to be. Push away from the trough and look at the "slop" you're being fed and the "swineherd" feeding it to you. Depending on the election, they will be feeding us for the next two, four, or six years so it's important you get it right--especially right now!

Though I'll be in Afghanistan, I'll "see" you on Election Day.

In Dire Need of a Beach

2010-09-28T12:29:00.002-05:00

I spend an inordinate amount of time while deployed dreaming about my mid-tour leave and the vacation I will take at the end of my deployment. One of the residual benefits of marrying my wife is I've become a "vacation guy". That is usually translated to a "beach guy". I have to explain the fundamental change that describes. I grew up enjoying second-rate paid entertainment. My frugal parents took us to sparsely-populated amusement parks that we only marginally enjoyed. Well, I actually enjoyed it thoroughly, but I was blissfully ignorant in my younger years. I was oblivious to the dour faces my older brother and sister had because they realized while their friends got to go to "Superland", we went to "Eh...This-Ain't-So-Bad-Land". My parents were of the "Why go out to eat when we have food at home” school of fiscal thought so a vacation was just not something we did. Well, unless you count sweaty cross-country rides in a Plymouth Reliant station wagon between two angry teenage siblings a vacation. I call it a recipe for necessary therapy later in life. At least my mom cracked the window to let two to three percent of the cigarette smoke she was exhaling leave the car. Anyway, it wasn't until I married my wife Lyndi that I enjoyed the benefits of a yearly vacation.

Before I go on, I have to convey the utmost appreciation I have for my parents' efforts. Now that I'm older, I realize that they did more than their best for us, performing herculean financial maneuvers to provide us not just the necessities, but the luxuries we whined for: like a Nintendo or the BMX bike helmet I pouted for a week for but then only wore once because my friends laughed at me. Without their efforts, I would have never graduated college or lived as happy a childhood as I did. With age, I've come to realize they are some of the hardest working people I know and despite being far from wealthy, they gave us a rich life.

Even still, the Nickersons never went to the beach that I can remember so when I arrived at a beach finally after twenty-five years of life I was stoked. My young son and I grabbed every piece of (un)necessary beach gear like body boards, inter tubes, fishing gear, and even flippers I think, and ran goofily into the raging waves. With hillbilly-like exuberance, we slapped "five", laughed and generally goofed off, lost in the excitement of our new beach experience. Our giddy frolicking in the ocean was cut short by the notification that the house the travel service had given to us was not up to our standards. Having no personal standard of beach house excellence at the time, I was dumbstruck and more than a little miffed. That was until we arrived at the house we were supposed to be staying at. It was at that place that I fell in love with the ocean and the beach. Since then, thoughts of the beach always pull me back.

Beach vacations though are always packed with unrealized good intentions with a large chasm between my visions and the eventual realities. I always overpack, convinced I will wear fashionable swimwear during the day and then go rico suave at night with some rolled up chinos and an island-themed shirt that makes me look like a young Manuel Noriega. Of course, I usually end up wearing the same old swim trunks all week and wear one or two t-shirts that convey my military affiliations because as most of my friends and family know, those are the only kinds of t-shirts I own. I always pack too many books with the intention of learning in a week's time how to speak Aramaic or something else profound but those dreams always end with me falling asleep on the beach and waking up to a book-shaped white spot outlined by lobster red on my lower torso.

Before every vacation, I envision myself bounding shirtless down the beach, picking up an early morning run like I'm in a P90X promo. Reality hits pretty hard though when I wake up for that "early-morning" run around 11:30. I always remember too late that running in sand is not only challenging, but it pretty much sucks. That ripped angelic body I have in my pre-vacation mental images are completely brought down to earth by the teenagers pointing and laughing at the wheezing fat guy with man-boobs stopping after 200 meters of aerobic hell. Who knew margaritas aren't an effective way to hydrate?

So my expectations are a bit more realistic this time. I plan on eating way too much. I plan on consuming just enough alcohol to scoff at my wife’s urges to apply sunscreen to my paper-white body. I plan on reading a mindless novel or two and learn absolutely nothing from them. I plan on running only when chased or to keep my steak from burning on the grill. I plan on wearing an old pair of swim trunks with torn liner and probably a shirt stating how badass I am despite the man-boobs and love handles. No matter what though, it will be within earshot of some roaring waves and the sounds of family having a good time.

Okay, I might try to run the beach one more time.

G.I. Issues

2010-09-23T14:27:00.001-05:00

One of the wonderful benefits of being in the military is the opportunity to travel. In my short time on Earth, I have been afforded the opportunity to watch a ballet in Frankfurt, to celebrate my birthday in London, to ride horses at full sprint by the Pyramids in Cairo, to ring in the New Year in Seoul, and to run for my life in lesser known cities in Iraq and Afghanistan. These experiences have enriched my life and, I believe, made me a better human.

Yet just as my times in these far off places have brought me joy and wonder, they have also brought me pain. Most of that pain, I admit, has been of the gastrointestinal flavor. Now, the United States has no doubt accounted for the most dramatic of my gastrointestinal trials, like the appendicitis that postponed the honeymoon to Cancun Lyndi’s parents so graciously gifted us and the pancreatitis I suffered, I’m convinced, by some bad chili at a community celebration. Those are stories for another time though. The pain I’ve had overseas has been a lot less dramatic, yes, but still very noteworthy.

I should have learned my lesson early. My sister and I, for some reason sans parents in (then) West Germany, were stuck at a carnival. For some reason, I took a liking to a German delicacy that looked much like raw hamburger meat in a leafy substance. Despite their steep price and our limited funds, I kept prodding my sister to spend more and more on them. My sister, five years older, should have stopped my raw hamburger, leafy-thing binge. I blame her (conveniently forgetting that I was a portly child that liked to eat). I think my parents did too, much to her chagrin. I hope she found solace in the punishment my stomach gave me for having my parents blame her for my gargantuan appetite.

In Cairo, I hung around with great, fearless people who did whatever they wanted with apparent impunity. Meanwhile, big bad soldier-guy, topped with a brain filled with warnings, watched in awe as they did everything I was warned to NEVER, EVER do in my badass Fort Bragg train-up. Like, “DON’T DRINK THE LOCAL WATER…YES, YOU…YOU IDIOT!” My problem is peer pressure. After a particularly rough rugby practice, I had diminished my effeminate clean, purified, crystal-clear bottled water. The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back was a female friend drinking from a thermos (a rather dirty one at that…the thermos, not the female). I gawked at her audacity and asked, “What the hell are you doing? Is that water,” as I looked around at all the other western expatriates for support, “from the tap?!” I couldn’t have felt smaller when she led a chorus of laughter at me. Of course it was the local water. I was the fool! I played it off the best I could, attempting to appear as if I was only joking, and drank the Cairo tap water like the manly man I was. I spent the next two days with a case of what I like to call “monkey butt” while serving solitary confinement in my apartment’s latrine waiting for the parasites I’d downed to leave my body.

So after these and other experiences in far-off lands where I’ve dared my stomach to maintain its fortitude (see also General Petraeus and the River Fish), it should be no surprise that I have what I like to call “G.I. issues”. Even still, I was recently caught off-guard by my most recent bout with hey-I- don’t-care-that-you’re-briefing-a-general-officer-I-have-something-to-tell-you-in-the-bathroom-right-now diarrhea. When does this ever stop? Hopefully soon after Uncle Sam stops deploying me to places where the food and drink are suspect. Until then, I’ll continue exorcising my gastrointestinal demons, though it’s probably the last time I write about it.

September 11th Thought

2010-09-11T13:08:00.001-05:00

There is a remnant beam from the World Trade Center outside of the building I work at here in Afghanistan. As I walked to my room, I noticed that I'd passed it for the past few months, only giving it a look longer than a few seconds a few times. Tonight, though, I took a longer look and reflected on our great national loss that occurred on September 11th and the future it propelled us into: the future we all live daily. It was kind of surreal to be so close to that beam tonight.

A few yards behind it, a Soldier played his guitar in the little bit of light coming off of a nearby building. It was a small tribute, but it was nice. And it was genuine.

Football: Loved in Afghanistan

2010-09-07T13:57:00.000-05:00

Football is no doubt America’s favorite sport. Back in the States, that fact’s existence is apparent in my daily routine. I catch the highlights on my television which is perpetually broadcasting ESPN, NFL Network, or some other football-related programming. My internet favorites are topped with my favorite NFL-related sites. I listen to sports radio on my way to and from work searching for the latest football news like so many other fans. I even sit in restaurants positioned where I can at least catch the scores. I tend to take the availability of football for granted. Access is too easy.

But here in Afghanistan, I have to work for my football. It takes effort. For instance, watching a primetime game requires an early morning wakeup and giving up hours of sleep. Watching a live game aired on Sunday afternoons back home translates to pushing back my bedtime.

Now, I could hold out and wait for the tape-delayed broadcast of my chosen game, but that would mean avoiding, well, everyone I know. On most days, that would be preferred, but my responsibilities won’t allow for it. So, I go around prefacing my conversations with, “Dude, whatever you do, DO NOT talk about the game!” This inevitably leads to teasing, which inevitably leads to the game’s result coming out, ruining any opportunity to view the game without the burden of its outcome. So, I watch the games I want, sleep be damned.

Another indicator here of America’s love of football is the sheer number of conversations that occur about the subject. A very professional conference that I attended recently devolved inot a debate about a college football team’s prospects in the coming season. Awkward silences can always be filled with banter about last night’s games. The highlights being replayed in the DFAC can hush the diners right up to the collective reaction of “ooh” or “ah”.

All these indicators, though, are minor evidence compared to the discussions occurring among the team owners of our local fantasy football league. It is hardly surprising for one of us to interject some obscure stat like Josh Cribbs’ return yard average the past two years. Or another might add the challenges a rookie might have transferring his skills from an option offense to the professional level. And those guys are mental lightweights (and are going down in flames by the way)! It’s always shocking when they bust out a doctoral dissertation-like monologue on the complexities of the Shanahan zone blocking schemes or the nuances that differentiate Wade Phillips’ 3-4 defense from others. The guy may suck at history but he can make an argument as to why Jim Brown was better than Walter Payton. The scary thing about all of this football fervor is it’s still in its fledgling stages. The college season just started and the NFL regular season is still days away. The fevered pitch that will reach its boiling point at the playoffs and bowl season has only just begun its crescendo.

I’ve loved football since I met my first professional football player on the back end of toddlerhood in Fort Hood’s PX in the Seventies. That feeling has only grown. I’m a small part of America’s grand love affair with football. It is during my deployments, though, that I witness the true depth of that love and the fiery passions it elicits.

High School Football...in Afghanistan

2010-08-22T13:41:00.001-05:00

We berate technology when it stops working and subsequently our relatively convenient lives become a little harder. Tonight, though, technology by way of the internet allowed me to experience a little of my son's high school football game. I woke early to listen to the Friday night matchup via streaming audio pumped out by the local radio station where he lives.

The broadcast was first-rate. The commentators were fantastic, obviously veterans of the local high school sports scene. They kept the analysis lively with personal stories and colorful anecdotes about the boys on the field and talked here and there about past heroes. The interspersed commercials advertising small-town restaurants, small-engine repair shops, and local banks reminded me of my youth growing up in Kentucky.

I closed my eyes and I was transported to a high school football field on a hot, muggy Friday night in Central Kentucky. I chewed my nails and imagined the folksy pageantry of the first game of the season versus a neighboring county rival. Through my headphones, I could faintly hear the rhythmic chants of the cheerleaders and the occasional yell of an angry father or a screeching complaint of a mother. I might as well have been sitting right next to them. I noted the boys my son is friends with, some of whom I've met, others I know only through their funny Facebook status updates and the pictures they post. Man, they get bigger every year!

Most of all, though, I thought about my son—a sophomore starting his first varsity football game. I wondered how nervous and excited he must have been despite his perpetually calm outward demeanor. I wondered if he realized I was there in the stands as proud as any of the other parents watching. Thank God for high school football. Thank Him even more for the internet to hear a game all the way in Afghanistan.

Chick Flicks

2010-07-30T13:13:00.001-05:00

C’mon ladies. Let’s get real. I’ve been forced over the years to watch more than my fair share of what we men like to call “chick flicks”. Now these movies come in many forms, but the following are some truths I have culled that I must pass on to you:

1) No matter what Lifetime says, I do not have another family hidden somewhere. We barely have enough money to pay for one Coach purse let alone another for a second wife. When we’re away on business, we’re away on business and our only indiscretion is probably a too-long stare at a Hooters waitress. Now, put away the gasoline and the straps for the bedposts Farrah.

2) I don’t care if Matthew McConaughey has six-pack abs. We, most likely, never will. It’s that whole “liking food and beer” thing we have going on that keeps us thick around the midsection. If we do have six-pack abs, then we’re most likely arrogant asses and sooner or later, you’ll grow to hate us (but strangely keep us around because you can change us…sound familiar?). Remember: fat men have more to love.

3) We’re not vampires and/or werewolves and if we were, we’d use our made skills to get, well…we’re not vampires and werewolves!

4) We have regular jobs and regular hobbies that we are, at best, mediocre at. Sorry; you’re not going to find out later that we now make glass sculptures out of metal rods stuck in the sands of the beach where we used to play as children. From lightning. Seriously, yes, that was in a chick flick. I vomited in my mouth.

5) If we’re secretly taking dance classes with a lady that looks like Jennifer Lopez, you should worry.

6) We love you. We’ve said it plenty. You shouldn’t expect us to break into song about it (though I do a pretty kick-ass hand-jive. OH YEAH!).

7) Rain, snow, and form of precipitation…NO! We don’t want to frolic in it. It’s cold, it’s, uh, wet, and it’s about as romantic as the smell of Ben Gay.

8) If you’re normally awkward and uncool and the coolest, best-looking guy in the school asks you out, things WILL end badly for you. Throwing out some words for your consideration: alcohol, rufies, awkward groping, blood from the ceiling…think about it. We’re more James Spader than Andrew McCarthy, especially with a few beers in us.

9) If you’re staying at a lodge with your family and you flirt with a thirty-something dance instructor and he reciprocates, it’s not romantic. In fact, it’s not legal and the creep should go to jail. I do agree, though, that nobody puts Baby in a corner.

10) And this I learned from my wife: You can never totally trust your girlfriend, because girls will stab you in the back. No matter if she's the wind beneath your wings or not.

So there you have it. I’ve given you the male perspective. I, personally, will have my daughter only watch movies that have accurate depictions of men. Like Gladiator and Braveheart.

Loud Planes

2010-07-29T13:25:00.002-05:00

The planes are really loud here. One might think that with jet engines exploding mere meters from where I live that I’d have trouble sleeping. That’s not the case. Having grown up five to ten minutes drive from Godman Airfield at Fort Knox, Kentucky, I became used to the loud, fiery afterburners of F4 Phantoms doing periodic touch-and-goes there throughout my adolescence. I was more than used to them really. I loved watching them dart across the sky wagging their wings at me, arrogantly showing off their agility.

The F4s were something exotic. They spurred daydreams of a life I’d live somewhere else, ANYWHERE else. I was a kid with pent-up energy, angst, and the confidence that I was pretty much smarter than, well, just about everybody. I wanted to feed all my captured adrenaline to adventures in faraway places. That meant getting away from my nagging parents and getting out of my small hometown. I wanted to do what I wanted to do and not what I was supposed to do.

Those F4s represented something. They were big, loud, and daring. They beckoned me to go be somebody, do something interesting with my life. I was going to date beautiful, interesting women who looked like the good looking cheerleader chick from “Goonies” and “Lucas”. I’d bring them back to my loft apartment with the exposed brick walls. A Soloflex would sit in the corner and maybe a bike or two would hang from the ceiling. We’d hang out on the fire escape or maybe the roof where I’d play my guitar…or maybe saxophone. I’d do all this after getting home from my job as a photographer, an astronaut, or a Wall Street bigwig. But all that was back when I was young and more than a little stupid.

Now, I hear those loud planes taking off and it just makes me miss my youth; so much so that I wouldn’t mind a little angry Korean woman smacking my mouth when I curse. I wouldn’t roll my eyes when my dad explained why getting good grades is important. Back when my future was a blank canvas and my only care was painting all over it.

Tony the Tiger, Eternal Optimist

2010-07-21T12:57:00.001-05:00

So, I’m sitting in a meeting trying to stay awake when this thought popped into my head: I wish I was more like Tony the Tiger. No matter what, nothing ever gets him down. And also, he is the king of getting people to recognize what’s important…Frosted Flakes. Segues be damned—we’re talking about Frosted Flakes darn it!

One day, me and Tony are col’ kickin’ it (as we say in the ‘hood). You know, we’re doing what we do: something like snowboarding, competitive hang gliding, street luge; because that’s what we all did as kids. And, of course, out come the Cobra-kai-like band of cooler, richer, more-apt-to-one-day-graduate-from-an-Ivy-League-school-because-daddy’s-a-huge-donor type of kids. Their leader looks at me and says, “I hope you’re ready loser! These slopes/winds/uh, asphalt is killer today.”

Well, instantly I recognize that I am just not up to their standards of performance. Their level of excellence is far beyond the ability I’ve attained over my years of snowboarding, competitive hang gliding, and/or street luging…I’ll never be as good as I want to be…NEVER! Worst off, I’ll never be as good as THEM! I turn to my gargantuan cartoon tiger friend (who apparently evokes absolutely no fear in the eyes of the band of cooler, richer, more-apt-to-one-day-graduate-from-an-Ivy-League-school-because-daddy’s-a-huge-donor type of kids) and out of my mouth bursts, “They’re right Tony. I’m no good.”

Tony, ever the observant friend turns to me and yells, “Frosted Flakes good? There G-r-r-r-eat!” I, of course, completely ignore the obvious fact that Tony hasn’t heard one word I’ve said, except, well, the word “good”, and decide, “What the hell? Tony’s right! I have no idea about Frosted Flakes, but I can snowboard, competitive hang glide, and/or street luge with the best of ‘em.” I then commence to outperforming my horrible, arrogant tormentors much to their chagrin. To top it off, when I do, I give ‘em a little “Grr…” just to emphasize the point that I’m better than them. Oh, and despite the fact that my best friend is a large cartoon tiger which brings my “cool” status into extreme question, by whooping that butt, I’m “G-r-r-r-eat!”

Wow! Thank you Tony the Tiger for participating in my random thought for the day.

Retirement Worries

2010-07-12T13:53:00.002-05:00

Like any good American male, I’m a fan of Stallone and Schwarzenegger. But as I get closer to retirement and being a veteran of two wars, their movies have begun to worry me. First of all, I’m a pretty positive, happy guy. Of course, now that I’m heading towards the end of my career, I have to find something to be torn emotionally about. It has to be a totally torturous, all-consuming psychological disaster that I’m running from—just the type of stuff I’m trying to avoid.

Another thing is I have to make enough money to purchase a large house in the mountains, away from bothersome people like, oh, Society. Or, I will have to go live in some far-off land and take up, oh, I don’t know, wood-carving or something folksy and spiritual like that. My big impediment would be my wife, who would need, at the very least, cable television so she could watch cake competition shows, Survivor, and Whale Wars while I scrap with my psychological demons.

Like many Americans, I own a handgun to protect my home. But now I’ll have to get some kind of cellar in my house (with requisite dust and cobwebs on the door) to store all of my “GET SOME!” military equipment. Part of the arsenal is a large automatic weapon, grenades to hang on my flak vest, and a shotgun to do nothing more with than to cock very loudly and distinctively before I say something like, “let’s go!” Finding magazine that hold an unlimited number of rounds will be a challenge, but they’re out there. They gotta be!

And darn it, I’m going to have to piss someone off enough that he has a personal vendetta against me, therefore drawing me into a paramilitary mess. At the very least I’m going to have to get more aggressive and harder to work with–enough to really, really piss someone off before they go create a mega-corporation/militia/cult whose real reason for existing is to make my life a living hell. I don’t know. Maybe “he” is a “she”? There are plenty of she’s out there that wouldn’t mind bringing me some pain I’m sure.

The other bothersome thing about retirement is the Army never truly lets you go. There’s an office in the Pentagon that handles such things. They have manila folders of us all with our pictures clipped to the front so they can decide whether we are “the only one” who could possibly handle an impossible mission. I’m afraid one day, there’ll be a need to create truly astounding Powerpoint slides and they’ll fly a general in dress uniform to come pick me up (at my home’s helipad of course) to ensure that the slides are done better than just "alright"…"they have to be perfect!"

And another wonderful day of chopping wood with a scowl on my face and/or practicing ninjustsu in my dojo will be ruined. Needless to say, I am not looking forward to retirement.

My Addiction

2010-07-03T13:24:00.001-05:00

I promised not to post anything controversial, but I can't help but break my promise in this case. War changes people and sometimes, they turn to addiction to fill the void and emptiness that war creates within the soul. As a result, there is open, rampant use of a particular drug going on here. We talk about it often, exchange usage techniques, recommend dealers, discuss product. And I'm ashamed to admit that I've become an addict. It's CAFFEINE!

(Humor me and hum the melody of Eric Clapton's "Cocaine" as you read this) If you wanna wake up, you gotta fix a cup. Caffeine!

I love sleep. People who know me know this. I can pretty much fall asleep in a matter of seconds. Doctor's waiting room? Out like a light. Visiting my parent's house? Snoring! My entire undergraduate education? Slumber! "Back in the world", having the ability to sleep on a dime is not really an issue.

But here, it would seem it is a point of pride to have a job that provides you little time to sleep. Unfortunately, I have one of those jobs...and I have no pride in the fact that I start my day early and end it late and then am subject to middle-of-the-night wake up calls to take care of crises. The only thing that keeps me from collapsing some days is a sweet injection of caffeine.

"Back in the world", the way I get the majority of my caffeine was two cans of Pepsi Max a day. (An aside: Pepsi Max has ginseng. GINSENG! IN A SODA! YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?! Yeah, me neither. Neither does the Food and Drug Administration, but people like my mother and millions of other Asians tout the benefits of ginseng. They don't have a square answer as to its benefits, but they vehemently claim it’s good for you. My mother's normal response is "issa good for your heart, kidney, and blood. Maykuh you big and strong!" So as my mother commands in a threatening tone whenever I continue my inquisition into the particular benefits of any of her Asian wonder-substances--"You shut uppa you face! Just drink it!"). But since Pepsico hasn't enhanced its distribution system to push Pepsi Max out to this soldier, I wander around looking for new vehicles to deliver my caffeine highs. I watched others and started asking around. The primary means of caffeine consumption here is coffee. Not being a regular coffee drinker, I wanted to ensure that I had all of the proper equipment and look the part so as to not be ridiculed. First thing: I needed to purchase a cup.

My first effort in that regard was a cup I sneakily snatched up from an 82nd Airborne guy who left it from the previous unit. Of course, as any good 101st Airborne Division Screaming Eagle would do, I promptly covered all of the 82nd propaganda on the cup with a cheaply designed 101st Patch printed out, cut and taped to the side of the cup. I have a word to describe the aesthetic result: "Ghetto."

So, I went searching for another cup. I acquired (don't ask me how) a "Don't Mess with Texas" cup. Despite living my first few years in the US in Texas, I am far from considering myself a Texan. My only ties to Texas are an undying love of the Dallas Cowboys, my sister and her family living there happily and claiming with a "yahoo" their Texas pride, and a lot of bad memories of being chewed up by red ants in Texas because I had a knack for, well, playing near piles of red ants. So, after cleverly trying to alter the cup with white out to say "Don't Mess with Kentucky" and ultimately motivating someone to rub off my alteration and making it say, "Don't Move to Texas", I decided it was time to break down and just buy me a coffee cup that was truly "me".

I went to my local Post Exchange and perused the selection. Now, there is no shortage of choices when it comes to coffee vehicles. I went through a process of deduction. First, anything with Air Force, Navy, and Marine Corps was instantly out. Nothing against those guys, but if I'm a "Crip", I'm not wearing "Blood" colors. Respect, brothers and sisters, but I'm not sporting your coffee cup propaganda. So I looked at the purely Army cups. They are great, but really. I have trouble spending five to ten bucks on something that states my current occupation. I have pride in being a Soldier, but for God's sake, I wear a name tape that says "US ARMY" on my chest every day. Sometimes you gotta step away. So, I went to the "I'm in Afghanistan and therefore a badass!" themed cups. I instantly passed the obnoxious, "Yeah, M-Fer, I kill terrorists!" themed cups, because, though I'm more than happy to help terrorists head south for eternity, I don't want to be overly excited about it...at least not overtly. So, I ended up buying the simple, understated "Enduring Freedom--Afghanistan" in a classy aluminum cup lined with plastic. It features a cap that allows you to sip your coffee in a civilized fashion while yelling, "Yeah, M-Fer, I kill terrorists!"

(Cue the Clapton Maestro) If you wanna get down, get some coffee grounds. Caffeine!

My next step was to fill up my new cup with coffee. Since, as I've alluded to earlier, I'm not a coffee guy back home, I have very little idea and/or experience making coffee in a coffee maker. I tried it for, like, the fifth time in my life here. If Saint Peter is keeping tabs on my lifetime record for making a good pot of coffee in a coffee maker, my record would be a lowly 1 and 7. I once made coffee for my in-laws that somehow turned out okay, but perhaps my mother-in-law was just trying to make me feel okay about my efforts. Anyway, I count it as a win.

Luckily, a civilian gentlemen introduced me to the wonderful world of Keurig. If you don’t know what this is, it’s a Roy Nickerson-proof way to make a good cup of coffee. You insert a small cup of compressed coffee into the machine, push a button and voila, you have a perfect cup of coffee. Anyway, as he left the country, he decided that he’d leave the machine--which he’d gotten years of use out of--to our office. I held out for a few days, but finally figured out how to make it work. It was like having my own personal barista in the office. Unfortunately, the guy only left a limited supply of “k-cups”, the cups with the coffee.

What ensued was an effort to research the best place to order these k-cups. After listening to much debate, my preferred site for ordering the k-cups became www.greatcoffee.com. Of course, another in the office had a better idea. He argued that www.coffeegiant.com was a better place to order from. With a name like “Coffee Giant”, though, do they really care about my product? It sounds so cold and unfeeling. I dream up images of a big box store with a teenager touching his oily, pimply face before wiping his employee vest…and then he packs my coffee cups. Not appetizing at all. My site elicits images of a Columbian with nearby burro carefully packing my k-cups and smiling while he does it. If I’m going to do this coffee addiction thing, I’m going to do it right!

(One more Clapton salute) If you’re really a man, you’ll drink your coffee bland. Caffeine!

Right before our stash of coffee ran out, we got a resupply via my order from www.greatcoffee.com. Being a coffee greenhorn, I didn’t know that the darker your preferred roast, the more masculine you’re perceived to be. And apparently, French Vanilla does not make the list of manly coffee flavors and the addition of cream, sugar, and pink-packaged sweeteners is not advised if attempting to fit in with the testosterone troupe. When I introduced French Vanilla k-cups into the plethora of coffee options, the steely-eyed warrior s I work with subjected me to a tirade of ridicule, not unlike the one Hilary Swank’s character in Boys Don’t Cry was subjected to and I got the same wincing look my Dad gave me when I told him I started drinking red wine daily—FOR MY HEART’S HEALTH DAMN IT! Satisfaction only came a bit later when one of the tougher of the crew looked around to ensure no one was listening and told me, “You know that French stuff? It ain’t half bad.”

You see? I’m learning and slowly but surely, I’ll transform the community of caffeine addicts I live in.

AFN, or "Neurotica" as I Call It

2010-06-28T12:10:00.002-05:00

The Armed Forces Network, or AFN, is a blessing. Really. The fact that I can watch American shows, sporting events, and news most anywhere I'm stationed in the world is pretty fantastic. I don't understand the folks that complain about it. That being said...the "commercials".

I have to admit that I'm a bit of a neurotic. I will now make a short story long. I began the years of my life I actually remember growing up in what was then West Germany. My earliest memories of watching and enjoying television and/or listening to the radio are provided by AFN.

At the time, my only conduit to the mainland was one channel of AFN (not the multiple AFN channels you get now) and its impact is pretty extreme. Because of that, I am now a news junky! We absolutely had to watch the news every single night. Because of AFN, I think I watched every episode of The A-Team and even The Greatest American Hero. But most of all, because of AFN, I'm slightly neurotic.

You don't show a five-year-old boy whose mother smokes a pack a day commercials about the importance of not falling asleep smoking. But there it was-right after the nightly newscast about terrorists in Frankfurt, hijacked TWA flights, MX missiles, and the Communist Red Horde just miles from my backyard-an elderly gentlemen falling asleep by the light of his own television (obviously not watching AFN or he'd know better) and smoke billowing up around him leading, presumably, to his untimely death. As if that weren't enough, I got the message early on that no matter how much cool rich people smoked on Dallas, Dynasty, and Falcon Crest, they were going to die early, leaving their five-year-old boys motherless. So, I don't think I slept for about five years. Thanks AFN!

Having a beer Dad? NOOOO! AFN explained to me early on the dangers of drinking. While other kids effortlessly fell asleep, I was wondering what my life would be like as an orphan. No doubt, I'd be split up from my older brother and sister and sent to a home...in like, Poland or something. (This was similar to the place I came from anyway according to my cruel older brother because, of course, the youngest kid in every American family was adopted...from trolls; or was it orcs? I forget. He was going through a heavy Dungeons and Dragons phase at the time.) Thanks for the great information AFN!

I didn't need the movie "Red Dawn" to keep me wondering when the Soviet Union was going to take over the Free World. I had AFN telling me how important it was to have my passport ready so I could get the hell out of Dodge (or Deutschland) should Soviet paratroopers start dropping on my playground. What's that? Oh, it's a Hind helicopter says the five-year-old who memorized the silhouette from guess what? WATCHING AFN! Thank you AFN bogeymen!

So, now, I watch AFN and their "commercials" with a little more understanding of what effects they can have on a person. Before I go into a frenzied panic and wonder where my helmet and reflective gear is at, I remind myself that I don't have a bike here in Afghanistan. Before I start to hyperventilate because I might go to prison and lose the dozens of dollars I have saved for my future for changing my home of record, I remind myself that I actually live and own a home in my home of record state. Whew. Before I go out in my Toby Keith "America Kicks the World's Ass" t-shirt with holey blue jeans thus making me an "Ugly American", I remind myself that despite liking Toby Keith and agreeing that America does indeed kick the world’s ass, I have taste and consistently wearing red, white, and blue together kind of makes you look goofy.

But deep in the darkest recesses of my memory banks lays an AFN public service message for any and every possible contingency that a human could possibly encounter. So, here's my public service message to those of you glued to the AFN tube: watch AFN in moderation! Don't let them get into your brain and program you with their so-called good advice! Live free of your AFN-induced phobias!

Oh, and make sure you turn off the lights to save energy and lock your doors because someone might a) steal your stuff, b) sexually harass you, c) sexually assault you, d) steal your identity, or d) all of the above.

Big Game!

2010-06-23T12:37:00.005-05:00

Tonight I was not able to partake in most of the festivities surrounding the US-Algeria World Cup Soccer match. “Festivities” at our location essentially equates to a near-beer and dozens of folks who hardly know anything about soccer sitting around a small television screen waiting for the US to score a goal. All-important meetings caused my absence for about 90% of the game.

My duties led me to the operations center floor. The place looks like a bad set depicting NASA Mission Control in a low-budget action flick. But fortunately, one of the larger television screens was airing the game in its final minutes. Now, the operations center hums with quiet conversations because should it get too loud, you get a speech from a guy whose job it is to give angry speeches about the importance of being quiet and not being loud…and he’s loud about it. I’ve heard this speech many times and it’s annoying, so I’m quiet along with the other folks that work there.

The game was tied at zero to zero and as the time ticked on, more and more folks became engaged. Then suddenly, it was announced that some maintenance would have to occur so the all-important screen showing the game was turned off. Finally, after waiting an excruciatingly long time, the game turned back on and we watched as Landon Donavan scored the winning goal. Of course, we missed it live and were watching the replay, but at the time, we didn’t know. Remember—it’s still darned quiet. That is unless you count the one surprisingly effeminate yelp that leapt from my mouth in a group of many, many steely-eyed warriors. It was hard to play that one off. I most certainly lost some “cool points”. Actually, I probably went into cool debt, but it was worth it.

U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

My Average Day

2010-06-17T13:51:00.002-05:00

In response to the countless requests I've had to talk about what I do on a day-to-day basis, I'm writing the following (actually the number isn't countless; it's about one, but "countless" sounds better):

There are a lot of things concerning what I do here that I can’t talk about. No, I’m not attempting to sound sexy or mysterious. One of the few things I can say is there is absolutely nothing sexy about what I do and the only thing that is a mystery is when I’ll actually get to go to my living quarters which I’m sure could double for a small storage shed.

A lot of my job has to do with battling carpal tunnel syndrome and a weird shoulder pain that comes from trying to hold my arm at an awkward angle to reach my mouse. When my grandchildren ask how grandpa hurt his arm and lost his eyesight during the war, I’ll have to come up with something more dramatic than, “I got hurt constantly staring into multiple computer screens at different angles and resolutions and making Powerpoint slides.”

I live on a small compound. I was warned to leave the compound on occasion to avoid madness, but I think I’m starting to like the cozy feeling I get from living here. I mean, I lift weights a lot and run on the treadmill daily. I eat three square meals a day. I work a few yards from where I live. Holy crap! I just described my daily existence the same way a convicted felon does. Man, I gotta get out more; get some excitement.

I have to be careful what I wish for though. There are men and women living in stressful and dangerous places and situations in this country everyday that I wouldn’t want to switch places with. Supporting them is more than enough motivation to suffer through the petty concerns that I face everyday. The Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen, and Marines (Coast Guardsmen, government officials, government agency personnel…) I serve with and work to support are great Americans and I’m privileged to wake up everyday in their presence…even if it means I have to deal with an occasional stiff shoulder and/or chronic dry eye.

The International Community

2010-06-12T14:07:00.000-05:00

I got to spend a few days near Kabul International Airport. Now, before you paint images of duty-free shops and taxis and bustling tourists, don't. Well, unless your shops sell foreign versions of kit-kat bars and Mirinda sodas, your taxis are up-armored Land Rovers and your bustling tourists are all in body armor. Then you'll have the right idea.

The particular place I was at housed a NATO headquarters. I'm writing this quick note to tell folks who might doubt the international commitment to the conflict in Afghanistan that they should visit this place. I--no exaggeration--saw at least forty different uniforms. The chow halls are filled with the smells of European food and the prevailing conversations heard over the din of military folk dining are certainly not English. It was great for me to see.

Another Bad Flight

2010-06-12T13:59:00.000-05:00

For those of you who have ever taken a STOAL (Short Take Off And Landing) flight, you may be able to identify with my short story. I hopped on a STOAL aircraft for what was to be a very, very short flight back to Bagram Airbase (for security purposes, I'll leave out how many minutes, our altitude, et cetera; but it was short). The winds, apparently, were very hard and rough, but big deal, right? I mean, I've experienced turbulence and some wind in the past. I've written about my hair-raising flight experiences in Iraq previously. So, what's another bumpy ride?

I got onto the small cargo aircraft and buckled in. The "flight attendant", an elderly contractor who no doubt had countless years of military experience behind him looked at us all and went through his normal briefing procedures. He then said some curious things. "This will be a short flight, but I gotta tell you, the winds are pretty bad, so keep your seatbelts buckled." I rolled my eyes and attempted to take a cat nap. About twenty seconds in, those winds started beating the heck out of our little aircraft. For about a minute straight we'd gain altitude and then drop for a few seconds. We went into a sharp turn and all of a sudden, everyone went weightless. Any thoughts of sleeping were gone as my adrenaline and fear caused my right arm to just about tear the armrest off and my left arm jerked the headrest in front of me as I attempted to hold onto something. If there would have been a crash, I would have died gripping that pleather headrest so hard the foam padding would have been everywhere.

Things were relatively calm for five minutes before the roller-coaster ride started again. The descent had us blowing to the right of the runway and when we finally landed, the plane kind of landed sideways, causing the wheels to smoke profusely. I couldn't get off that plane fast enough, but not before shaking the pilot's hand. I will NOT volunteer for any flights from now on out.

Missing meals

2010-06-01T14:00:00.001-05:00

So, in case you're wondering, I'm busy and seemingly only getting busier. I work for some genuinely very important people and it seems like every day, that VIP list keeps growing. They have very important things that need to be done. Of course, they have so many important things that need to get done that they can hardly be expected to do it themselves, so that's where I come in.

We have something in the military called "battle rhythm". You civilians have one too, you just may not call it that. You may call it something, well, civilian-like, such as "my routine" or "my lifestyle". I have attained, after many iterations, a rhythm that includes the default activities that I must conduct everyday. It starts with the three S's to begin the day (if you don't know that that means you Puritans, ask around), roll into work, review my calendar, check my email, meetings, meetings, work out, and then, uh, meetings. It's my existence.

Somewhere in there, I plug in meals. Now, luckily, I have access to a wonderful little free restaurant called "The Mess". Now many of you, of course, have visions of canvas tents with nasty Army slop dropped in metal cups. This is not that. The food which is provided by Soldiers in my case (not contracted cooks) is actually quite excellent. I love to go there to grab a bite to eat. I have nothing to complain about. Okay, that's not totally true. My wife and I often discuss the phenomenon that is "Mexican Restaurant stink": the smell that wafts from you after visiting your favorite Mexican joint. Well, The Mess gives you a close cousin which often leaves you smelling like a Waffle House fry cook after pulling third shift.

But I digress...

As the number of VIPs that impact my life grows, so do the demands on my time. Unfortunately, the thing that falls by the wayside is eating. Now I know I can afford to miss a meal here or there, but that doesn’t mean I want to. So missing them directly affects my morale. Roy no likey be hungry but I guess duty calls.

Boo important people. Hooray food!

Lovely

2010-05-24T12:29:00.000-05:00

It's taken me a bit, but I've finally settled in a bit here at Bagram Airfield in Afghanistan and now have some time to update folks. The following is a list of my disasters so far:

1) Though only related because I have to deal with it here, I'm still recovering from a torn calf muscle. This occurred because I keep forgetting that I'm not an eighteen-year-old overachieving high school athlete anymore and I decided to run with a grown man on my back, albeit as part of Army training.

2) I took a walk around Bagram Airfield. Some vets of this place said, "Hey, we're going to walk around this place; let you have a look around." I, thinking how harmless it would be (I mean, I only have a partially torn calf for God's sake), said, "Sure. Why not?" Those three words have preceded many an ill-advised adventure for me I find. I should heed the half of me that, as I grow older, is quicker and quicker to remind me that I have nothing to prove. So, the two irritated little raw points where my thighs were rubbing against the hem of my boxer shorts have now become horrible open sores. Yay!

3) Because of the previous two challenges, I now walk with what can only be described as a bow-legged limp which looks hilarious except to the person with said limp. I do it to compensate for the previously described injuries, which, you guessed it, caused me to injury myself in a totally new and exciting fashion. I strained my MCL.

I truly believe if I keep this up, I will end up walking around like Matt Roloff. My wife, of course, is not surprised by any of this, hence her mantra-like warning to me to always “be safe” and or “be careful.” She knows me better than the eighteen year old ex-jock that lives within me.

Oh, and 4) my beloved Amazon Kindle 2 broke on the flight into Afghanistan. It’s not as if I have time to read anything, but it’s the idea that pains me. It is probably the single most useful and subsequently used product I’ve ever purchased in my life and now, it’s gone. I buckled down and ordered another. And yes, you should buy one too.

You Get More With Honey...

2010-05-01T17:13:00.001-05:00

I had a tense moment recently with a superior. I will spare you the details, but it is enough to tell you that it was a response to a set of instructions he gave me in a very public setting. The instructions themselves weren't harsh or even unreasonable, but the tone he took and the choice of words he used were very condescending. More than anything my basic sense of pride lashed back at him. I will grant myself the description of my response as professional even though it was witnessed by many and the superior was obviously taken aback by it.

I shrugged the incident off and to his credit, he did too...I think. It came back up a day later when a close friend of mine pulled me aside and applauded my defense while noting, "That guy talks to you like a..." Well, I'll spare you his description. One thing he said, though--and it's a good lesson to those in management or supervisory positions--was, "You get more with honey than with vinegar."

Sure, it's a cliche, but it warrants repeating and perhaps an occasional relearning. Because he was my superior and I'm a professional, I would do whatever he asked of me so long as it was legal. I believe that is the case in most professional situations. As superiors we have to remind ourselves that, for the most part, people are going to do what we say with little question. So, there is no reason to assert our power position when it is not necessary and almost never should it be asserted in a way that makes a subordinate defensive or even, in turn, offensive.

Instead, too many supervisors must feed their egos to remind themselves that they are what reality has already deemed them to be: in charge. Lord grant me the sweetest honey mixed with reason and courtesy so I can leave the vinegar laced with condescension and angst on the shelf. Maybe I'll keep my subordinates happy to a degree and might even keep my self-image healthy.

People Make Me Angry...

2009-12-06T13:41:00.001-06:00

What is it with people who always insist that the best part of anything is what all the rest of us thinks is the worst part? Like apples? They are the ones that insist that the core is the actually the healthiest portion while the sweet, fruity part actually causes cancer or something. Enjoy bananas? They are the ones that tell you that the peels are the most vitamin/nutrient-packed portion of the banana and then go into a ten-minute dissertation on why monkeys live more healthy lives than we do. A multivitamin is useless because it doesn't absorb. Water is filled with chemicals. So is seafood.

The worst part about these people is they are equally versed in the benefits of "bad" things. "Cigarettes actually have benefits. Studies show..." What? Studies show that they cause cancer and death. Get over yourself!

Alright, off my soapbox.

California University of Pennsylvania Speech; November 10, 2009

2009-11-21T01:41:00.000-06:00

Thank you to Lieutenant Robert Prah and the California University of Pennsylvania Veterans Club for flying me into Pittsburgh and putting me up for a night so I could speak at CalU's annual Veterans Day Luncheon. It's always a first-class event and this year was no exception. The support of the faculty, staff, and especially the University President, Dr. Angelo Armenti, Jr. is incredible there. The opportunity to speak at the beautiful upgraded campus is vey much appreciated. It's absolutely wonderful as was the treatment I received from the faculty, staff, and students that attended the event. Below are my remarks, minus the stuff at the beginning:

Our nation's veterans are a diverse group. They come to serve in this nation's military from a lot of different places and I mean that physically, mentally, and socially. They have different motivations—from paying for a college education to a sense of obligation to serve their country. For me, and I don't always like to admit it, I think it was mostly the pride I felt as a little boy watching my dad, Sergeant First Class August Nickerson, coming home in an olive drab uniform and listening to him and his friends telling war stories over beers. A little more of it came from my mom telling me stories of American GIs coming to help her family during the Korean War. Serving for me is personal and I value the opportunity everyday.

When I was thinking about this speech and wondering how I could do justice to our nation's veterans, I tried to think about commonalities between them. It's difficult. Though the combined strength of all the services; active, Guard, and Reserve components currently serving is less than one percent of the nation's total population they still number in the millions. Add the millions that have previously served to that number and you understand my challenge. They are as diverse as a young African-American from Compton, California who's trying to stay out of a gang to a guy like my dad from Plattsburgh New York who just wanted to get away from his mother. After all my efforts to find those commonalities, I ended up back at the common oath that each of us takes that promises we will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic and that we will bear true faith and allegiance to the same...

The Constitution of the United States of America; a truly wonderful and important document. Fifty-five men from throughout the colonies sat at the Constitutional Convention to fix the Articles of Confederation. Great, serious, thoughtful men looked forward into the vast expanse of this young nation's future and they looked for one to lead them. They looked for one who had experienced fire. He had felt danger and stared it down. They looked for one who had physically laid his life on the line; who had spilled blood and seen it spent by others for the sake of a mere idea that was a United States. And that idea would become the freedoms we enjoy today. In George Washington, they didn't look to the philosopher; though he was a thoughtful man. They didn't opt for the firebrand, though he was certainly passionate. They didn't opt for the clergyman, though he was a Godly man. Ladies and gentlemen, those men looked to the soldier because they knew that when the weak, yet growing nation needed a leader, he had and would lead and had and would do anything to maintain its security and therefore its freedom. That national tradition of depending on our fighting men and women held during this nation's war of self-discovery—the Civil War—before the nation was even a century old. When the Old World sought a savior from the toils of war on its soil, the nation's tradition of calling on its fighting men continued. When the world stood against the onslaught of tyrannical fascism, the tradition continued. It continued in the face of a vast communist threat and America's fighting men and women faced it down during the Cold War. And now, today, the tradition of answering the nation's call to duty still continues.

Many of the young faces in the crowd today have seen the ugly face of war on behalf of the nation's security interests. Today, things might be more complex. The world might be more dangerous. The rhetoric is certainly still just as heated. I contend though, that when the proverbial going gets tough, this nation's leaders still trust our military to lead us from strife. It's a burden and obligation we carry with the utmost diligence and I assure you, we take it very, very seriously.

On Veterans Day we take a few moments to honor those men and women who, despite the world's danger, stand sentry against all of this nation's enemies both foreign and domestic and say "not on my watch". Some people may question the connection between serving the nation's interests thousands of miles away and maintaining the security of our country here. My simple answer to why we do it is: through the construct of the US Constitution, you asked us to and each of us said yes when we raised our right hands and extended our loyal oath to defend that sacred writ. To see an eighteen-year-old make that commitment when he or she faces the prospect of fighting and dying in one of our country’s two wars, is humbling. Even so, to anyone who wonders about the integrity of our youth, I find solace knowing that Americans so young would think and act beyond their own interests so readily.

Today, we honor those men and women who serve and have pledged their very lives—not for a group of elected officials, not for Wall Street, not for big buildings in bigger cities, not even for 300 plus million people, because these things only comprise this nation; they are not the fabric that holds it together, the foundation that makes it so. They risk their lives for the simple, yet heavy idea that is human freedom as expressed in our sacred Constitution.

Before I conclude, I’d like to first challenge the veterans currently in the crowd, whether they are currently serving or have served in the military in the past, to continue the tradition of service to the community even out of uniform. When I recount names like George Washington and remember our great military leaders like Grant, Chamberlain, Roosevelt, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Powell, and Pennsylvania’s own George Marshall, I note that they are only a small example of those that continued to serve their communities long after they took off the uniform. Let the same patriot’s spirit that brought you to serve motivate you to serve your fellow Americans once you leave the military. Represent your service well by being an exemplary citizen and finding and maximizing every opportunity to better this nation and in the process, you will better yourself. Tell your story. Tell the military’s story, not just through words but through your deeds. Quietly and perhaps unbeknownst to most, there are over 200 veterans on this campus doing just that.

For those that serve our great nation in other, equally important ways, such as teaching America’s youth and preparing them to take on the challenges that will come in this still fledgling century, running and working in businesses that keep this country’s economy vibrant, I thank you as well. Your contributions are no less important to these United States and we know your love for this country runs equally as deep. Your presence here today to honor our veterans is proof of that. Yet I challenge you to honor these veterans not only today, but everyday. To do that you don't need a luncheon or a ceremony. It's simple and I'll tell you how all of us can do it: go speak freely. Use and thoughtfully speak your mind. Go to your mosque, your synagogue, go to your church and worship however you please. Don't be afraid to tell your elected officials how you feel! Meet with your friends and organize to do what you feel will make this country better. Exercise your right to pursue happiness. In short, be American. Honor your veterans by using the freedoms they defend every single day. I can only speak for myself, but as a veteran, I know that this will honor my service most. Thank you for this great opportunity and God bless America.

Shut up and Salute?

2009-10-09T15:53:00.004-05:00

In the post-Vietnam military, we have tried to squash the open hostility that has often represented the relationship between the media and the military. In fact, officers are taught to never say “no comment” in response to an inquiry and to seek out the media in order to tell the US military’s side of the story. The media is an important part in disseminating the message behind a mission. Officers must understand these considerations and work within these conditions.

That’s why I’m a bit confused at the recent blasting of General Stanley McChrystal and his honest, candid discussions on the situation in Afghanistan. Plus, I am a bit disturbed at the automatic assumption that someone in the McChrystal camp leaked his staff’s assessment of operational needs for success. Considering that there are reports of open disagreement among White House advisors who work down the street from the Washington Post concerning our strategy going forward in Afghanistan, I would assume that they would be the first assumption people would make on the source of the leak.

That is neither here nor there. It’s out. General McChrystal and his staff have performed their assessment of the situation and have submitted it for approval. Telling him, a leader whose scope truly impacts the world, to not speak on the subject is just bad business. He was asked. He gave his honest opinion. You see, he does it because that’s what our military officers are taught to do. We’ve felt the brunt of an angry public when this failed to occur in the past. I can’t consistently say that for the body of politicians that are given the mandate by our Constitution to lead him and the rest of the military.

The military gives unprecedented license to the media to cover its operations and does its best to provide honest answers, giving freedom to individual servicemembers to speak on subjects in which they hold knowledge. The only restrictions are they don’t talk “outside of their lanes” or areas of expertise and do not reveal classified material. Members of the press saying things like “Generals Need to Shut Up and Salute” are way out of line and they should be careful. They might just get their wish.

Me Olde Truck

2008-12-05T13:41:00.003-06:00

Yes, that’s “Olde” with an “e”. It’s folksy so just go with it.

My father hates my truck. My father is a Ford man, with two bona fides in his garage to prove it. Now, I’m not sure where he picked up this staunch hatred of all things Chevy. The Ol’ Man is not a NASCAR fan or a fan of any other driving league (Are they even called “leagues”?) which might induce such dripping hatred for all things Chevrolet, but the hatred is there nevertheless and he’s very vocal about it. Some classic comments shot toward me concerning my truck:

“Wait. Do you hear that? If you’re quiet, you can actually hear it rusting.”

“Man, you’re lucky I even let you park that thing in my driveway.”

“I’d be angry that you didn’t call, but I could hear the clanking from that truck miles away.”

(As we’re pulling away) “You have Triple-A or roadside assistance? You’re bound to need it in that Chevy.”

It all has, in turn, caused me to embrace my truck. It was a great purchase (used) over seven years ago and remains one today. I actually got an offer in Iraq to buy my truck from someone who had seen it during our train-up. With only small repairs over the years, it has taken me and my family to a lot of places and has been an essential part of our everyday existence. No complaints, only endorsements. Plus, it’s been my vehicle on countless long drives across our great nation, so it has provided more than ample time and a perfect location for introspection and thought. Only I could squander that time in grand fashion.

I sing in my truck like I’m headlining at the Bellagio. “Roy Nickerson Sings Your Favorites”. And it’s mostly stuff I’d never listen to or sing along with while people are around. Two words: Rent Soundtrack. This can cause problems.

Driving up to stop signs and forgetting that anyone can see me stretching my arm out mimicking Celine Dion in a Vegas concert can be a bit jarring to normal folks. Not that I listen to Celine Dion…I mean, I listen, but not really. Okay, I listen to it but I hate every second of her leather-bound greatest hits CD collection that I received complimentary after attending her two-week vocal clinic. No, that’s a lie. Or is it?

I once rode with my friend Mike, his wife Julie, and their beautiful daughter Emma to a Harbor Freight tool store which we followed with a trip to Starbucks for mocha lattes—that’s a good mix: big industrial tools and foo-foo coffee. Anyway, they had a CD of personalized songs made for Emma that interjected her name into the choruses of the songs. So, basically, it would say things like “We’re all nice at playtime” blah, blah, blah and then some strange voice, hardly matching the singer’s would state, not sing, “EMMA”. Okay, I exaggerate, but I think we laughed until we had internal bleeding or until Emma yelled at us to stop laughing at her music.

Man, we should do that for adults. Can you imagine Metallica’s "Enter Sandman" with “Sleep with one eye open—ROY—gripping your pillow tight—ROY.” Or Mellencamp: “Little ditty, ‘bout—ROY—and Diane, two American kids doing the best that they can.” I’d seriously pay for that.

Sorry. Back on subject. Long drives. Gas stations. Nobody’s ever happy working in a gas station. It’s only mildly apparent when they respond to your smile with a polite blow of cigarette smoke in your direction. Lovely. What is it with gas stations that disable folks’ ability to pee straight? And can I just take my kid into a gas station bathroom and not have to explain what a French tickler is? How trustworthy are sexual protection items purchased from a machine in a Flying J gas superstation? I’d think one could take the time to borrow his brother-in-law’s car and drive two counties away, park in the back, adjust his fake mustache, and go to the experts at a sex store to get their pleasure items like the rest of America. And seriously, I’m never going to stink bad enough to need a squirt of knock-off Polo from one of the smell-good machines in one of those stink tanks.

Two annoying things I do: when inebriated, I call people I haven’t talked to in years. Now, I’ve curbed this practice in the past few years as my drinking has subsided, but the habit still peeks around a corner every once in a while. My very understanding friends are usually pretty gracious enough to take my calls, sometimes from other countries in different time zones, and convince me to put down the phone as if they were hostage negotiators or suicide counselors.

Well, calling while on long drives can be just as annoying to the receiver. There’s nothing like a two-hour period during a long drive that makes me want to suddenly apologize to my sister for ripping up her entire Archie collection in 1983. I carry that yoke like an incurable disease—visions of Archie, Veronica, Jughead, and the gang ripped to shreds at my feet as I incessantly tear them apart. To her credit, she’ll never let me live that down. Good for you strong woman! She forgives but never forgets. I know that a good long drive gives me the opportunity to confess such sins via cell phone. Warning: driving while crying not recommended! Small tip: Use the cell phone only in emergencies and that does not include finally admitting to breaking one of your mother’s precious Hummels during a Christmas wrapper roll sword fight in late 1982.

Rest areas. Can these places look more like a setting for the beginning of a CSI, Criminal Minds, or a Law and Order episode? There’s always the creepy guy gripping the mop handle just a bit too tight. He sits in the janitor’s closet and stares at the tile contemplating the abduction and dissection of his next victim. At least that’s what I think he’s doing. He’s probably really thinking about the replica of the Pinta he’s building in a bottle to go along with the Nina and Santa Maria. There’s not enough room in his mother’s basement for his shipbuilding damn it. Doesn’t she understand he’s an artist? She never understands. She NEVER UNDERSTANDS. NO ONE WILL BUY MY MODELS ON EBAY! THEY’LL ALL PAY! No matter how you look at it, it always goes back to creepy serial killer.

Prior to meeting my wife I used to sleep without care at rest areas with only my fierce hands and feet for protection. Somehow along the way, I adopted her fear of sleeping in my vehicle in public areas. So now I pay the $120 per night for a Hampton Inn room…WITH SUITE! Nothing says good night’s rest like a living area and a kitchenette with a mini-fridge that I’ll never use during my seven-and-a-quarter hours stay. And yes, I ALWAYS take the complimentary toiletries and I sleep with the premium channels on all freakin’ night. I paid for them darn it. Out da nose!

I have a problem with falling asleep while driving. I am very susceptible to white line fever. Only two things make me sleepier than driving—college professors speaking and televised bowling. Other than that, long drives make me, pun completely intended, crash. I once woke up taking a highway exit. Most would look at that as God telling them to get some rest before taking long drives. I took it as God telling me to get off the highway for a delicious Sausage Egg and Cheese biscuit from McDonald's. Yes, the Lord knows how good they are. So I’m usually caffeinated until I have a heart and respiration rate like one of the zombie vampires in the movie I Am Legend. Too arcane a reference? Watch the movie like I did this past weekend and you’ll understand.

There’s nothing like an eight-hour drive through amber waves of grain to make you contemplate what could have been if you’d spent less time chasing girls in college, drinking cheap domestic beer, and staying awake to watch reruns of The Jeffersons and spent more time cracking a book. Maybe I could have become the surgeon my mother actually wanted. SO MUCH POTENTIAL WASTED!

What would I do if I won a crazy amount of money in the lottery? I only know what I’d do because I’ve thought about it for no less than 93 minutes while driving. It basically boils down to, with slight variations, owning a small island where I’d periodically host a tournament of the world’s best fighters dueling to the death. I’d have an army of mercenaries and servants that would answer my every request. Plus, I’d have large predator cats trained to lie tamely at my feet as I stroked them. Sure, it’s hardly original and the logistics would be complex (yes, I’ve actually thought about the logistics), but my God, how cool would that be?! I think every true guy has this fantasy creeping around his head.

Of course, my wife would also live there, so periodically, we’d have to host a tournament of the world’s best chefs who’d battle it out for culinary supremacy with, like, sugar sculptures or something. I swear, women can watch some Food network. I can barely stand watching, with mouth agape of course, the transfer of cakes from the kitchen area to the display table. It is sooo nice when the cake collapses, isn’t it?! My addition to the Roynickersonia (the name of my Island) Culinary Tournament of Champions would be that the losing chefs would have to fight in a pit with just their cooking utensils and big hats. Sorry, Men are from Mars…Of course, I’d succumb to my wife’s scold and we’d end up never having the bi-yearly fighting tournament and would only have cooking competitions, dog shows for miniature dogs, and gargantuan luxury handbag sales.

Now, it’s background time. I’m sitting at a Chevy dealership awaiting the completion of work on my rolling meditation capsule. I'm currently worrying about losing the object of my father’s disdain and the platform for so much of my twisted introspection. Of course, with deals on vehicles going like they are now, maybe it’s time for an upgrade. Contemplating that possibility would be so much easier sitting in my ol’ truck on another long drive.

Pretty Picture

2008-11-05T16:27:00.000-06:00

It’s hard to paint a pretty picture of the area of Iraq I’m currently in. Rains in the past few days leave the dirt roads here muddy versions of their previous selves. Everywhere, it seems, is trash built up on the side of the road. The empty water bottles, food wrappers, and plastic bags collect at the mouth of tributaries leading into streams leading into the main river. Water drains into unsealed septic tanks that spill over their lips onto the ground and into the puddles pooled around the city. The stench is horrible. It’s the unmistakable smell of feces and trash churned in mud.

I look in amazement at the people who walk unfazed on the side of the muddy roads because there aren’t any sidewalks. Their shoes and the fringes of their pants or dresses are caked in wet mud, but it’s business as usual to them. Some of them even manage a smile and a wave.

Sometimes we pass crowded soccer fields full of children playing in leagues broken up by ages. It doesn’t look that much different from Little League back home, except there is no grass, no doting mothers emerging from SUVs and the uniforms aren’t uniforms, let alone matching. It’s the children’s energy that makes it the same.

Sometimes we pass the really little ones at the gates to their little houses or walking hand-in-hand with their parents. There are dozens of them on any street. They wave and beg, hands and arms waiving overhead for anything. They are adorable, but anyone can detect intent in their actions. They want something from you. But even that’s cute, like watching children playing dress-up and acting like adults.

And there it is. It’s the children that make me feel it: hope. Not some hope related to grand government programs, campaign promises, or lofty world peace solutions, but a next-day type of hope. A hope that maybe these kids will come closer to a reliable sewer system, sanitation, clean water, and consistent electricity. The hope that maybe life for them gets a little bit better tomorrow. No, my little portion of Iraq is no pretty picture, but maybe tomorrow it will be a little bit prettier. And the day after that…

America Through Foreign Eyes

2008-10-17T09:22:00.000-05:00

The FOB I’m staying at has a wonderful Italian restaurant with internet stations. The food is some of the best Italian food I’ve ever eaten, if only for the fact that there are few, if any, alternatives except spaghetti or Chef Boyardee raviolis at the dining facility. There are a few Europeans running it, though I haven’t spoken to them enough to get figure out the origin of the accent. Doesn’t matter. The food is great and the internet is fast.

I looked around that place and was reminded just how little foreigners who have never been to the United States know about it or its citizens. They stretch to give their American customers a taste of home, but usually end up falling far short of anything Americana. The results usually make me laugh hysterically. Blasting from the television was VH1, uh, Bangladesh, I guess. It pumped out all the recent hits—everything from Steve Winwood to Belinda Carlisle. I felt like I was back in the seventh grade again. Draped on the wall was a random poster of the Chicago skyline next to a flag that promoted the 96th Kentucky Derby.

This desire to give us a piece of America is really commendable, so I try not to criticize, but it’s just so darned easy. I’ve seen it in other countries too. In Korea, me and some other young officers would frequent the bars of Seoul and surrounding cities. They had names like The New York Club and Cowboy Disco. The motif was usually gaudy caricatures of gaudy caricatures: things that the owner saw on western television or in magazines. Once, I passed a large picture of Gary Coleman giving a thumbs-up. No, really?! In a beach town in Korea, I went to a place called, plainly enough, “Jazz Club”. The owner’s idea of jazz was a live recording of a Mariah Carey song on a loop. I eventually stopped laughing at the continuous playing of “I’ll Be There,” but only after three hours and enough Coronas (with lemons, not limes, mind you) to make me forget what I was listening to. While living in Cairo, I went to a restaurant with, get this, a Minnesota Vikings theme. The walls were covered with pennants and posters with all things Minnesota Vikings. When I inquired about this to a waiter, he responded with, “They play the best football matches in America!” I later spoke with the owner’s son who confided that his father had seen them play once.

We sometimes wonder how foreigners see us. I, personally, think that we’re pumping out horrible images of our country to satellite dishes across the world. Most of the images are just perverse reflections of what only a small few Americans experience, or even want to experience everyday. I was in a small border town near Iran and walked into a room where a young Iraqi gentleman was watching a very pretty Lebanese woman gyrating to the latest Arabic knockoff of some rap video. Instantly, he motioned for me to sit down. It was obvious to him that I wouldn’t want to watch the Lebanese video. Instead, he turned the station to a gyrating Britney Spears. He smiled a broad, toothy smile and gave me a thumb-up. “You like, yes,” he asked me enthusiastically.

“Yeah, I guess. Whatever you say man. Whatever you say.” I laughed inwardly at his suggestion. A buddy of mine walked in the room to check on me. He looked at me, looked at the screen, and looked at my host. He then smiled a very wide, toothy smile and sat down, asking, “What’s going on man?”

I just snickered and answered, “God bless America,” drank my chai and enjoyed the sounds of Miss America, Britney Spears.

Another scary flight

2008-10-17T09:12:00.000-05:00

The flight out promised to be interesting, if only for the fact that it was not being flown by Army pilots in everyday UH-60 Blackhawks, but civilian contractors flying souped-up UH-1 Hueys or something that looked terribly similar. I ran up to the civilian crewman, who wore his tan coveralls covered with matching web gear that was stocked with enough ammunition to win the Battle of Fallujah twice. I yelled at the top of my lungs to his face over the roaring hum of the helicopter engines to confirm the destination of the flight as he winced and held out his headset to listen to me. He smirked his “Man, I’m such a badass” smirk and nodded a quick yes and pointed to the seat. I sat down on the pleather seat facing the rear of the aircraft and fumbled with a seatbelt that was more like a MIT student experiment, all the while being stared at by another civilian hired gun in attire matching his friend. He came at me like a father frustrated with a two year trying to tie his shoes. He then proceeded to slap together the contraption like a master of origami and looked at me as if to say, “Wow, you’re an idiot,” and then went back to stroking his precious M240B as he peered out the windowless door of the aircraft.

I was on my way to a large “FOB” or Forward Operating Base. In previous times, that term would sound sexy, but now it just meant a big base in the middle of the desert with the familiar amenities of civilization. You could get your fast food, shop at the Post Exchange (PX), and take care of important administrative business, both personal and for your unit. I was doing the latter. I was taking care of some issues for my team, was shaking hands and kissing babies with folks that were normally just names on email CC lines, and, if I had time, was going to visit the dentist.

I was getting as settled as I could into my seat despite my seatbelt not holding my torso back, causing me to lean forward the entire flight uncomfortably. I was surrounded by some younger travelers, each who reveled in flying as evidenced by the constant flashes of digital cameras and jabs at their buddies. I, on the other hand, have started to really hate flying. I’ve been on a few bumpy rides, a couple on fixed wing aircraft, but mostly on helicopters with Maverick and Goose wannabes trying to make the flights more interesting. If I had liquor, I would have already downed it. Instead, I tried to sleep through the hour-long flight.

I quickly found out that this would not be possible. The choppers we were on were going to do something I hadn’t done since my time in the 101st Airborne (Air Assault) Division. They were flying NAP of the earth, or Near-As-Possible to the earth. Great. We flew for about five minutes, then would immediately rise a hundred feet in the air to avoid power lines. The young soldiers beside me laughed and mouthed, “Woe”, at every rise, fall, and bank the helicopter took. I wondered if they would be so excited had they seen helicopter wreckage like I had seen once earlier in by career in Korea. I, again, tried to doze off.

Just as I started into a good snore, heat hit my face and a flash of intense light as the helicopter banked away from it. My heart was racing as the chopper raced far too close to the ground and then pulled up to avoid some power lines. I looked at the hired gun sitting across from me as he held the mouthpiece of his headset to his mouth and yelled, “What the hell was that?!” I was more contemplative, resigned that this was the end. “Wow, this sucks,” crossed my mind. I looked over at the young ‘uns to my left and they weren’t smiling anymore and had their cameras tucked firmly in their laps. We quickly resumed a normal flight path and the soldiers were a lot less raucous for the rest of the flight. Seeing their distress, for some reason, comforted me and I nuzzled my chin into my chest, closed my eyes, and napped for the rest of the thirty minutes to the FOB I was heading to.

When we landed, we found out that the countermeasures automatically responded to some stimulus on the ground. The pilots did exactly as they were supposed to do. The hired gun that sat across from me monitoring the ground below just shrugged at my questioning, ran his fingers through his, “I’m not in the military anymore” goatee and said, “Happens all the time; you get used to it.” The soldiers traded stories about phantom rounds they heard flying past the chopper and compared how scared they weren’t. I went to find a ride off the airfield. I’d had enough excitement for the day.

Humble Soldier

2008-10-17T09:05:00.000-05:00

Recently, my team and I were moved to a new area of Iraq. The politics and hurt feelings involved in the move could be covered in a book chapter, but I’m just too tired of going over it again and frankly, I don’t have the time or the motivation to write about it all. The result of the decision, though, meant that we were to move from the relatively plush living area that we’d grown accustomed to and would be traveling to a much more dangerous part of Iraq. It was time to really earn the hazardous fire pay.

I have to say that the entire experience of moving has been humbling. I’m now living in a tent, sleeping on a cot under the cover of a mosquito net to keep out the biting insects that, no matter how hard I try keep out, still get in. Despite dousing myself with every insect repellent known to man, I am now pocked with bumps all over my body. Yes, all over. I’ve taken to covering myself with Benadryl cream and taking Benadryl tablets to keep from ripping my skin to bits in an effort to alleviate my itching.

If I ever was contemplative and introspective concerning matters of life, death, and my future once my Iraqi adventure is over, then I am damned near a monk now. I can’t help but wonder about my wife and son every time we pass a point on a route where just days previous, one of America’s best shed their blood for God and Country. I’ve been around incoming indirect fire during training events, but never when standing around in a t-shirt and underwear getting ready to go to sleep. Prayer became a constant tactic early during my time in Iraq, but now I seem to be having a constant conversation with God. I remind Him that I cede to His will, not my own, but should He not mind, I’d like to spend some more time with family and friends before I make my home above. The dwindling number of days I have left here tell me that He hears me, but who knows God’s plan for me in Iraq. When I finally return to the States, I’ll have my answer, but for now, I’m just a humble soldier trying to make it another day.

I'm Sorry, What Was That You Said?

2008-09-18T12:33:00.001-05:00

I wish this story was not true. Really.

So, I’m doing the regular nine-to-five, really toiling for the freedom of the Iraqi People, et cetera, et cetera, and I’m approached by a perfectly good Iraqi gentleman.

He approached me with an inquisitive look on his face, shook my hand and introduced himself. Nice enough. He then asked, “Sir, do you have any experience with Filipino hookers?”

“I’m sorry, can you repeat your question? I’m not sure if I heard you right,” I responded.

“Filipino hookers. Do you have any experience with them,” he asked with more intensity.

“Uh, well, no actually,” and then continued while attempting to lighten the now-shocked mood of all those in this man’s audience, “if you had asked about any other kind of hooker…” he cut me off.

“I have heard that the Filipino ones don’t mind if you impregnate them,” he stated.

“Look, I hardly think this is appropriate…” I attempted to cut him off.

He didn’t hear me, “You see, I’m a twenty-six-year-old virgin, and when I get enough money, I’m going to Manila and having lots of sex.”

“Oh wow! I’m speechless. So, you’ve really got this planned out it seems.” I was looking around for a hidden camera at this point and was only met with the faces of some giggling soldiers who were watching to see how I’d handle this one.

“Yes. I understand that these women, in fact, want the babies and want nothing to do with you after the sex. What do you know of this? Is this true?” This guy was completely serious.

“Uh, I gotta be honest with you. That’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard. First of all, congrats on being a virgin at twenty-six. It’s to be commended.”

He cut me off again, “Why?!” Then, he seemed to drift off on me, “Crazy, huh? I never planned to be…” It was my turn to cut him off:

“Second, I should warn you that this is not an appropriate topic of conversation and it may very well get your ass beat someday,” I said while he looked at me only slightly hurt.

“And third, I’m sure that the last thing that a Filipino hooker wants to add to her obviously already large mountain of problems is a baby without a father. I mean, c’mon!” I said slightly exasperated.

He looked down for a second, not as much hurt, but wondering about his next step. “Okay, do you know anyone else I can speak to about this?”

I wasn’t sure if I was Abbott or Costello in this conversation. I turned around and walked off. I’m sure that I was the rude one in this conversation, but I wasn’t about to exchange niceties after all that.

So, add “defending the honor of Filipino hookers” to my resume.

R&R, part 2

2008-09-05T06:20:00.002-05:00

I was blessed to spend a portion of my R&R leave with my son. It’s incredible to see how much he has grown, especially since I’ve been away from him for so long. He grew at least a half-foot since I last saw him and was sporting a deeper voice that reflected his ascent into puberty. I felt like a Spartan father examining his offspring as I marveled at his development. My inside voice expelled a proud growl as I noted his growing muscularity and strong, confident gait. This boy, this MAN IS MY SPAWN! I WILL SEND HIM FORTH AND HE WILL TAKE OVER THE WORLD! HA, HA, HA!

Of course, this was after I looked past him initially and he brought me into focus with a, “Dad. DAD!” Jeez, I hardly recognized him.

I had the luxury of spending a little time with him, just the two of us, during our visit to downtown Chicago. During that time, I caught myself staring at my son in awe of how much he had grown both physically and mentally. I reveled in the discussions that we engaged in and smiled internally at the intelligence that he displayed. I enjoyed the questions that he asked, the things he noticed from his perspective that I hadn’t, his developing dry sense of humor.

I believe that in our children, we can see a lot of ourselves, both good and bad. The joys and trials come in trying to mold a child who possesses the best qualities that you possess and sheds the worst. My glasses are hardly rose-colored, and I’m not sure who this young man will become, but current indications point to a better man than this author. And that makes me a very happy spectator to his young life.

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R&R leave can be a mixed blessing. My time with my wife gave me a warmth and feeling of security that I haven’t felt since, well, the last time I was home with her. Every second was simultaneously filled with joy at being together but tinged with an impending dread at having to eventually part. R&R provides a very necessary return to marital bliss, the comforts of home, and the love of family and friends, but it also slows that imaginary clock that counts the days until you can finally return for good. My wife was the first to note this aloud, with a precursor statement of, “Now don’t take this the wrong way…” I didn’t. I understood. I felt it too.

I look back upon my R&R not only with smiles and laughter, but with an occasional pang that comes from craving time with my best friend and companion through all my trials. My time at home made me recognize that every moment we have with the ones we love is a precious, miraculous gift. Iraq and the potential dangers of my surroundings only make my awareness of this keener.

R&R, part 1

2008-08-28T05:55:00.000-05:00

“R&R” leave is over and I’m back in hot and sweaty Iraq. I’m back to my cozy little portion of the world, my top-bunk vantage point of the war and it just makes me want to be home that much more. Spurring my desire to return is the fact that my leave was wonderful—absolutely wonderful.

I flew out of our wonderful little combat outpost (COP) via Blackhawk helicopter and felt the weight of my many duties and responsibilities slip away as a stared out of the chopper onto the desert floor below. It’s interesting to see this place from that perspective. At first, we hovered over sand as far as the eye could see. Of course, this was interspersed with an occasional piece of brush, and it was hardly the desert of movies, with mud huts in small enclaves and roads here and there. The terrain changed as we headed into the more-populated Baghdad area. More indications of civilization appear as we approached its outskirts. It is also apparent that water is more abundant in the Baghdad region as the fauna increases and tributaries of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers jut into populated areas of the city. Now these aren’t inspiring scenes of beauty by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s water and more robust plant life, which, compared to where I’m at, are a novelty. I can see the streets of the city. People stare up at us as we fly over; a child threw a wave in our direction which definitely caught my attention.

We got out of the chopper and were marshaled into the Baghdad International Airport, or BIAP, waiting area and learned our fates for the next couple of days. “Hurry up and wait.” It’s a popular gripe in the military, and that’s what we did. I looked around the hangar—a makeshift waiting area—and was again shown what folks who have been around soldiers know from experience. Soldiers can sleep anywhere. I bought a $4 blanket at the local small Post Exchange, laid it out on the concrete and slept on and off for the next couple of days. I was surrounded by countless others doing exactly the same thing.

Of course, I spent plenty of time ordering foods that were not accessible to me during my time back at the COP I live on. I ate way too much Pizza Hut. I also enjoyed Burger King. I was a regular at the Green Bean Coffee House, and ate several times at Subway. I also got an incredible haircut, wash and head and neck massage from an Indian barber who I tipped as if he had just delivered my Maserati from an air-conditioned parking garage. I hadn’t spent any money for awhile, so I was feeling generous.

We left there and first endured a harrowing ride on a huge Air Force cargo jet that took us to Kuwait for more outprocessing. While there, the lights from the Golden Arches of McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken near our tents nearly brought me to tears, though I was so sick of fast food, I had to settle for just the symbolism: America, Home, was just a day or so away.

On our trip back, we got to stop at an airport in Ireland. This was really neat (not really). Ireland really is very green. No, really freakin’ green. I went to the airport bookstore to grab a novel to read on the rest of the flight to Atlanta. The selection was worth a smile. The books were all Irish-themed and included a special tribute section to Tom Clancy, who, I guess, is a favorite son. There were books with names like, “Your Celtic Kitchen” and “The Prayers of St. Patrick”. Every cliché was represented to those that wanted to seek them out. Wow. I then thumbed through the music and found the broadest selection of Irish drinking songs, Celtic chants, and Dublin boy bands. Next, I pondered buying an Irish rugby shirt or an Irish soccer shirt. With all this great selection, how could I not go wild and buy the whole damned store?! So, I left with a processed Irish chicken salad sandwich, an Irish cranberry juice, and a genuine Irish Snickers bar.

Atlanta’s airport was actually a relatively painless experience as we were shuffled towards our connecting flights to home. The coolest thing happens as you get off the plane and walk through the general population of travelers. They begin to clap—all of them. The thunderous applause gave me chills and gave me a lump in my throat. The people were very gracious and it was a wonderful experience. It was mimicked in the plane on my way to Evansville to meet my wife and son and the rest of my Evansville, Indiana loved ones as the people in the plane gave me and another returning soldier a rousing ovation.

If you’ve ever been away from family for a long time, you know the strangeness of returning to them. For me, it was like finding my favorite childhood toy after years of it lying in storage. It brought me so much happiness and comfort in the past. I know it at an instant and am extremely ecstatic at finding it and I remember all of the joy it brought me, but I haven’t used it for so long that I’m slightly unfamiliar with it and afraid I’ll break it. I’m cautious not to handle it too roughly until I get used to it again. The unfamiliarity part lasted until the first hug. After that, it all came back to me. There is nothing so comforting as the love of family and for the first time in too many months, I was truly comfortable. R&R for me didn’t begin until that moment.

Keeper of the Numbers

2008-07-14T05:24:00.001-05:00

I am literally counting the days here. I keep a few different sets of numbers delineating the days I have left until some particular event in what is affectionately known as my “Green Brain”. We call it that because it’s a great place to store information of all kinds. It’s a green, 200-page, durable, hardbound journal-style book that conveniently fits into the left cargo pocket of my ACU (Army Combat Uniform) pants. Spread your fingers out and look at your hand from pinky to thumb tip and if you’re not Manute Bol, you have the size of its length. The Army always wants its soldiers to have something to write on and something to write with, and the Green Brain works quite nicely. You can see (good) leaders walking around with them throughout the Army. I once had a boss who filled eleven books over the course of a two year command. I thought him mad, because I have just one book covering the last twelve months, but I write small and I really don’t think everything is worth noting. Plus, I obsess about what I put in the book. It’s the old clean underwear joke where, in the event of your death, your mother worries about the state of your underwear no matter the gruesome nature of your passing. I don’t want anyone to think, “Man, what a pity about Roy. But goodness, did you see his handwriting? And what the hell was he talking about in that little green book they found?”

Anyway, back to the numbers. I keep the number of days I’ve been in theater, because the more days that pass, the closer I get to 365. This leads to the next number I keep: the number I have left to 365. Then I keep the number of days I have left until our replacements take over here at Combat Outpost Shawshank, which it has become (not) affectionately known. Finally, I keep the number of days until I leave for Environmental Morale Leave (R&R). Of course, in order to get to the airport to fly home, I have to leave our combat outpost a couple of days prior, so I throw in that number too. On top of all that, I keep an index card where I printed by hand the calendar of months and days to the end of my tour so I get a clear picture of the entirety of days I have left in Iraq. Different perspective I guess.

Like a lion that paces back and forth in a zoo cage whose stare and march is only disturbed by a keeper’s toss of meat, I pace through my day awaiting my opportunity to turn the numbers over one more time, and one less time. It’s a bit maniacal I know, but others have joined me in the event that is my turning of the days. Everyone here knows who to come to when they need to know how many days until we go home. Keeper of the Numbers: It is a title I embrace.

Echoes

2008-06-28T16:04:00.001-05:00

There are a few things that I never want to hear again after I leave Iraq. The first is humans begging. I’ve heard enough. From the request of a father wanting money to transport his daughter for medical care to the simple request of a child that wants a ball to play with, it’s a shot to the heart. I’ve heard requests for drinking water and food. The faces that go with the begging are difficult to look at. “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact.” But I always do. I can say that I helped those I could, but I will forever ask “Could I have done more?” in particular situations.

The next sound is gunfire. In my experience (and by no means have I seen the kind of action that some brave souls elsewhere have seen) I always say to myself, “What the hell was that?!” first despite knowing exactly what the sound was. It takes a few nanoseconds to process it all and verbalize, “Gee, I think someone is shooting at me,” though my language is a bit more colorful in those situations. Depending upon the range and how close the round comes, a moment after I hear the shot from the weapon that fired, I hear a very strange sound, like all of the air being sucked from my immediate surroundings and into the wake of the round that is flying past me. Unconsciously, I’m already falling to the ground and trying to find cover. The scary thoughts start to develop after things have died down and the situation is under control. That’s when I start to really think about the previous events. I deduce that by the time I heard the round, my reaction was already too late. Thank God for poor marksmanship. Just thank God. I ponder my mortality. I mostly think about going home and being with my family. This place sucks.

Another sound I never want to hear is the screams of a gunshot victim. It’s surreal to be in a situation where a man is lying on the ground as a result of a bullet entering his body. It’s organized chaos helping a man that’s been shot. “Stop the bleeding! Stop the bleeding! Hold him down! Calm him down! Who’s that guy?! Calm HIM down!” In my experience, I liken it to witnessing a small child get hurt badly. There is that split second between when you see the painful event transpire and when you know the pain will hit. Once the child sees blood, the screaming starts—the blood-curdling type that makes you do the cringe and the clenched teeth suck of air that makes a reverse hissing sound. There’s the same look of horror in an adult, the same tears, only the scream is fuller coming from fully-developed lungs. It penetrates and stirs a bit more. And the blood. My God, the blood.

The echoes still bounce around occasionally in my head. Hopefully, they will go away the longer I’m away from this place. When I go back to the States, I want to hear some quiet I think. I want to hear some silence again. Some peace.

Cute, Chubby, Loveable Ten-Year-Old Inner Demon

2008-06-20T16:20:00.003-05:00

I walk into the Dining Facility the other night, about to start a few hours of graveyard shift duty. I was grabbing a few items at the “midnight chow” bar to keep me awake through the night. I was met by two younger soldiers who looked at me a strangely, as if they had a question. I stopped and asked, “What?” One of them responded, “Sir, what are you doing up so late?” I returned, “I’m going to work.” They answered, “Oh. Okay,” as if they thought that wasn’t a good idea.

Weird.

So, I moved on with a wondering squint and one of the dining facility workers noted that he has not seen me at breakfast in a long time. I explained that I would love to eat breakfast, but it would only lead me to eat more over the course of the day. You see, people have presented the notion that if I eat breakfast then I will be less hungry and as a result I will eat less throughout the day. This strategy does not work for me. Eating breakfast just results in me eating an extra meal. I don’t curb anything. The last thing I need is a gargantuan omelet, a greasy hash brown, fruit cocktail in the finest sugary syrup, and some sausage piling on to the Michelin currently around my waist. So, this young Indian gentleman gave me the same wondering squint I gave earlier and said, “Sir, you look fine! What are you, 36? 37?”

“Well, uh, no actually, I’m YEARS younger than that you damned fool and I really want you to shut up now. SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” And then I ran out of the dining facility crying with my face in my hands…in the daydream that played in my head. In the real world I just laughed a confident laugh coupled with, “No, but I guess everybody else thinks so.”

So, I haven’t written a lot lately because I’ve been running every night. Chasing me is a chubby little boy in size “husky” shorts. Yeah, it’s me. Memories of that boy sitting on the backseat of a Chrysler station wagon, sweating like a faucet between his dual Walkman-wearing older siblings during a sticky summer cross-country drive in 1984 keep running through my head. The music I’m listening to while running barely drowns out the memory of the tinny sounds of Sheila E spilling out of my sister’s headphones as my brother pumps Van Halen. They are both trying to shield their ears. You see, my father, and he’ll still tell you this, only listens to two kinds of music—country and western. I sit with my feet and legs squeezed together like a POW in a box on the little hump in the middle of the car's floor as to avoid my sweaty thigh touching one of theirs and thus eliciting an eye-roll and a push from one of them onto the other. This, of course, would cause the other to get angry and to push me back against the initial pusher…and so it went. My father sits ready with a cold stare in the rearview and loud, “HEY!” should things get out of hand while my mother sits and smokes like she’s a factory stackhouse. She did a lot of that those days. She cracks her window so it’s not like we’re all sucking in toxic fumes. I certainly didn’t smell like a ten-year-old Marlboro Man. No; not at all. For some reason I’m wearing an “I Love NY” shirt that fits me like a glove—a sweaty, stinky, I’m-riding-across-the-hottest-part-of-the-God-blessed-Southeastern-United-States-in-the-middle-of-summer-and-I’m-going-to-die-of-heat-exhaustion-and/or-a-cholesterol-packed-stroke-because-I’m-waaayyyyy-too-fat-for-a-ten-year-old glove.

And that’s why I’ve been spending my nights running despite the intense Iraqi heat. That chubby little boy is somewhere in my psyche right now eating way too many egg rolls and maybe an ice cream and he wants to meet me; maybe meld with me. One of these days he might catch up, but it won’t be before I leave Iraq at least. Hopefully, it’ll be when I’m about 75. The husky boy will finally catch up and will want to live life to the fullest. He’ll want to wear skimpy Speedos while gardening and very little else. After all those egg rolls, bowls of ice cream, and chasing me down, who would I be to deny him?

Favorite Memorial Day Memory

2008-05-26T17:35:00.000-05:00

It was extremely cold and I was shaking from it but I think that I would have been shaking anyway. I was feeling the gravity of the moment. The place seemed hallowed to me for some reason, though there was nothing marking history or that which made this place seemingly sacred. I didn’t even know how I got there really. I had fallen asleep during the drive and when I opened up my eyes, there it was.

The house was a modest farm home in southern South Korea. It was nestled at the bottom of a hill near a village where my mother grew up. I got out of the SUV and walked arm-in-arm with my two cousins that I called “sisters” to the door. Upon its opening, I was covered in hugs and kisses from strange people that I didn’t know. They knew me though and started asking me countless questions about how I was doing and how my mother and family were. I had a strange mix of joy and uncertainty as more and more of my distant family came to paw and stare at me. My two cousins that I was closest to seemed possessive and kept me close to ensure that I was comfortable and, more importantly, that my other cousins didn’t get too much time with me. My two cousins had invested their time in me, translating for me, guiding me on many of my weekends in Korea, so they felt deserving of my attention. Considering they were the best of my cousins at speaking English, they didn’t have to worry that day.

The tension kept increasing as the time to conduct the real business of my visit approached. The eldest of my two favorite cousins signaled from across the room that it was time. I nodded back to her and everyone seemed to know that they should let me go do the inevitable. I walked to the dimly-lit room with the cracked sliding door and stood a confident, strong young man ready to take on whatever view awaited me inside.

As I strode through the door, the confident, strong young man seemed to take a break from the situation and went back to visit with the family. What was left was an eleven-year-old boy. Across the room, lying on the floor on a simple mat was a seemingly ancient woman. She was familiar to me, but changed. I’m sure she thought the same of me. As if giving commentary on a witnessed event, my cousin said, “We didn’t tell her you were coming until a couple of minutes ago. We didn’t want to get her too excited.” She looked at me through eyes welling with tears. We stared at each other for what felt like minutes until she held out her frail hand and motioned for me to come to her. My pride left to visit with the family too. I broke my silence with sobs and fell to my knees in front of her as she used her palm to wipe away my streaming tears. After kissing her and hugging her I finally broke our silence. Through my limited Korean I said, “Grandma, I’m an American Soldier.”

My Grandmother, in her late-eighties at the time, responded through my cousin, “Then I’m very proud.” She proceeded to tell me about how American Soldiers freed her country and to tell me stories about the Korean War. I sat and listened like a child at story time to her descriptions and felt prouder than ever of my chosen profession. She spent the next couple of hours with her arms wrapped around me and I spent those hours just feeling whole.

On Memorial Day we honor those that have fought for our current United States of America. In this age of disagreement concerning the nature and conduct of this nation’s conflicts, it might be easy for some to lose sight that the women and men of the American Military have committed themselves by oath to uphold the charter that guides our American Society—the Constitution. The cynicism of our times might point to the bonuses and the benefits that motivate some to join the Armed Forces, but those that I know and associate with mark lofty ideas such as liberty, justice for all, and the pursuit of peace as reasons for joining and staying. If the ends of our combined martial efforts throughout our history are the overall betterment of Man, then I’m willing to set aside (but not forget) the sometimes questionable means by which we got to those ends. And for merely one day a year, the American Nation should do the same and proudly celebrate those brave souls that cannot do it anymore.

My Grandmother did. There was no ceremony and there was no speech. It wasn’t even our Memorial Day. But she took the time to thank American soldiers through remembrance and to tell her grandson that she was happy he was one of them. It’s still my favorite Memorial Day memory.

I miss you 'merica

2008-05-18T08:54:00.005-05:00

I’ve been laying low for awhile. There’s no particular reason for it; there’s just not a lot to report. I’m a pretty positive person, so I try to project that as opposed to the negativity going around these days. Admittedly, there’s not much you see as positive through the haze of 100+ degree temperatures. Everything slows down. Everything barely lurches ahead, seemingly even time. Man, I’m a long way from home.

I think a lot about what I miss back in the States:

I really miss the green. There’s something about trees, grass, forests—Green—that makes me feel good. I miss the smell of a freshly-cut lawn. That smell takes me back to my youth: to football practice, general stupidity participated in with friends. Like wrestling…in the grass…maybe to impress a girl. What the hell were we thinking? And what were the girls thinking. But it was fun. The only green around here are the shrubs that are covered in the dust that blows. Not so green.

I miss clean (relatively clean) tap water. I’m tired of wondering the PPM of additives to ensure the freshness of our water. Even then, I can’t drink it. Funny thing: there are signs everywhere warning thirsty folks that the “WATER IS NOT POTABLE; DO NOT DRINK THE WATER!” Of course, it’s written by foreigners, so it reads something like, “WATAR SNOT PORTIBLE; THE WATAR IS NOT TO MAKE DRINKING!” The signs are placed all over the bathrooms. The place that never fails to illicit some giggles from me is over the urinals. Because if I was THAT thirsty…Anyways…

I miss Wal-Mart. But I don’t at the same time. It’s amazes me that at two-thirty in the morning I can go purchase a staple gun and scratch that itch to look at car air fresheners. The people! It’s incredible who you meet at Wal-Mart. One of my compadres here cleverly called Wal-Mart “real-life Myspace”. I go to Wal-Mart and purchase my yogurt with the granola sprinkles (all-in-one) as well as a Cornish game hen straight off the rotisserie, oh, and Tang, and inevitably I run into countless people I knew and liked in middle school and/or high school, but never hung out with because we didn’t like the same music or because I didn’t wear the right brand of jean jacket or something incredibly shallow like that. Then comes the “let’s compare our current lives and remind each other why we never hung out” conversation. You ever notice that everyone’s “doing great,” no matter what? “Yeah, my first husband lost his fingers in a wheat thrashing accident while working in The Landows (The Land-what? Am I supposed to know where that’s at?), but he’s doing fine with the disability and my parents, well they’re…” If I had a knife I’d start to cut myself to make me feel better, but normally, I just grin and bear it all. “…other than that, I’m doing great. What are you up to now?” I usually make up a lie. “I sell kites to Belgian businessmen. It’s huge over there,” or “I taste-test Cornish game hens for Wal-Mart. It’s a smaller division of Wal-Mart, but we care about quality.”

I miss restaurants. Not just any restaurants, but chain restaurants: Outback, Red Lobster, The Olive Garden, Logan’s Road House, Friday’s. Wunderbar! I express my love of these places openly, not worrying about the snobbish remarks I get from, well, snobs who tell me that they “hate those big chain restaurants. There’s this place down on 5th and Sampson in Newtonvilleshiretontown that makes the best linguini a la blah-blah in a wonderful loogie sauce.” SHUT UP! Bring me a freakin’ Bloomin’ Onion from a crabby waitress who’s trying to pay for night school at community college AND is willing to tell me all about it. Seriously, my wife and I are suckers for these people and always leave an inordinately huge tip! We just want a good story. I’ll worry about my high cholesterol and blood pressure later. The food is great and you look around and see real Americans in all their working-class glory. Damned be the snobs. They are closely related to people who always say, “The British version is sooooo much better.” SHUT UP! Look, “The Office”, the AMERICAN “The Office” is better. IT JUST IS! BETTER, BETTER, BETTER! AAAAAHHHHHH! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!

Ahem.

Now that I’m a bit stirred, I’m tired of China. China this, China that. But (keeping with the theme), I love Chinese buffets! I’ve done some reading on Chinese history and have never stumbled upon the Great General Tso, but I think he’s China’s greatest leader. And say, “moo goo gai pan”. If you’re every having a bad day, say that ten times and you can’t help but smile. And the names of these places. They must have a Chinese buffet international law-making body that allows for a limited number of adjectives and nouns to name their restaurants. Here goes for the adjectives: Golden, Forbidden (City can be added to this to make a complete adjective), Jade, and, uh, Bamboo. The nouns: Great Wall, City (but only after Forbidden, see by-law 14), Panda, Wok, and Bamboo (can be used as an adjective as well). There are others, I’m sure, but those restaurants not utilizing the aforementioned adjectives and nouns are hereby banished from the United International Chinese Buffet Regulating Body.

Mexican restaurants. I love them. But what’s with the ventilation systems in these places? I can walk into one and ask for directions. A twenty-second visit ends up with me smelling like an enchilada. There’s usually one or two people that actually speak English, and it’s not the person that’s taking my order. I derive no small amount of joy watching my wife explain the difference between brown sauce and red sauce to a guy and explaining how much she hates the brown sauce and the reasons why. Or is it the red sauce? Anyway, it’s a crap-shoot whether he gets it right or wrong. I like the big frozen fruity margaritas. I am totally secure in my sexuality, so I want it with fruits and umbrellas in a big, gaudy glass enough to make Jimmy Buffet blush. (I mean seriously, is the gaudy, fruity beverage in the colorful glass the tell-tale sign that homosexual men use to signal other gay men? If you ask my machismo-ridden friends, they would answer yes. They’re a loveable bunch…I mean, not loveable like in a gay way…wait, no, NOOOO…I’M NOT GAY, I’M NOT GAY! Seriously, all of this, “dude, you’re gay if you wear designer shoes” homophobia stuff has got to stop.) Lastly, have you ever had the Mexican waiter that looks like a regular white guy? He comes to the table and says “good evening” and looks like your Uncle Stan who is about as white as Bob Newhart and you assume he speaks English like Uncle Stan so you rattle off your order way too quickly only for him to have to get the one or two folks that speak English that work the cash register to help him understand why your wife needs the red sauce, not the brown…or vice versa. See how I tied all that together? I miss Mexican restaurants!

Okay, so in spite of the heat, I’ve mustered a little useless passion for you. And for a few minutes, I’m mentally back in the States wondering where I’m going to eat tonight, what I’m going to buy at Wal-Mart, and driving my truck with the windows open and enjoying the smell of fresh-cut grass. I can’t wait to get back to the States and my psychological comfort zone that allows me to take all of that mundane greatness for granted.

Racing Sunset

2008-04-13T03:12:00.003-05:00

Most everyone understands the dangerous nature of what we do here. You look for the ones that don’t appreciate the challenges and don’t have that slight touch of fear. Fear is a blessing and a curse. It keeps you grounded, but it can paralyze. Just enough and you have one of the elements of a good soldier. Too much and you have the worst. The right amount was a bit elusive last night.

Driving through one of Iraq's more dangerous anti-coalition enclaves is not fun. Most of these cities have relatively tall buildings. Between them are often streets closed or prohibitive to vehicle traffic. Sometimes it’s the road conditions; sometimes it’s just the sheer number of people on the road. There are small shops and occasionally inviting smells from local restaurants and food stands. The buildings and cityscape is full of color—a stark contrast to the surrounding sand. The tapestry is created by towels and clothing hung out to dry, signs and billboards, products being displayed for sale. And it’s all bustling. The animation is provided by the most important element in the picture—the people.

Through our windows we look out and note the stares, the facial expressions, the gestures. Even the clothing can tell us something about the person within them. The elements all amount to a sentiment that I can feel, especially with the body’s heightened senses. My eyes move back and forth scanning the crowds. Frankly, I’m scanning everything. I’m in a constant race with my teammates to find that one sign of action against us. It’s a race I hope we never finish.

One might think the bustling cityscape is loud and I’m sure it is. Inside my vehicle though I don’t really hear anything except the crosstalk between each of the vehicle’s inhabitants. We are noting everything. “Did you see that?” It’s amazing during these times when that question is asked and everyone at once answers “yeah” with the utmost certainty that everyone is watching the same thing. We are tuned to each other that well now.

“Man, I wish I had a soundtrack playing. Maybe the music would tell me when shit is gonna go down.” It’s an attempt at comic relief that is met with agreeing and serious comments like, “Yeah” and “Ain’t that the truth?”

I was thinking of these things as we looked at our watches at the base we had traveled to. The ride down was scary enough. Now, we had to go back through that same daunting territory, but with nightfall approaching. As a leader, I do calculations considering sunset, the city’s terrain, and the published EENT, or End Evening Nautical Twilight. I consult another element’s leadership and we deduce that if we don’t leave by a certain time, we just aren’t going. Now, with ten minutes to go until that deadline, my “pucker factor” is high. With three minutes to go, the other element that we’re traveling with finally shows up. I look at my guys and say, “Well guys, we didn’t join the Army to be timid. Let’s go.” I giggle internally at my theatrics. I then get on the intercom within my truck. “Why hoard anything that might change the mood,” I think to myself as I ask my guys, “That was a pretty cool line, wasn’t it? When Danny Devito plays me in the movie about our ill-fated mission, that’s the line that will win him the Oscar!” My self-deprecation invites some much-needed laughter. “Everything’s better with cheese guys,” I say as we head into the city again like plunging into cold water. It’s a fast swim; faster than the morning.

In the dusk, I can barely make out the cityscape in the mirror out my window and sprawling into my peripheral. We’re through it.

“So, who would play me in our movie,” I ask aloud.

“Sir, you had it right—Danny Devito,” one of the others responds.

Our shared laughter indicates our shared relief.

Humanity on Parade

2008-04-10T06:57:00.001-05:00

Dr. Leon L. Haley, a wonderful professor of mine and a very wise and intelligent man, once encouraged me to “try to see and accept the humanity in things.” I believe his encouragement was in response to my habit of providing cold, calculating judgment of both situations and people. Perhaps it is my penance to be surrounded by large doses of human drama here in Iraq.

If there is anything that Iraq is full of, it’s humanity. The qualities and characteristics that make us human are definitely more apparent here. The emotions are raw and less veiled. Actions tend to be more zero-sum than in everyday Western life. The politics are real and their impact more visible. Humanity doesn’t have to be sought; it’s in my face.

Nothing seems to display this more than the faces and voices of those who are in need. There is an honesty that cannot be ignored when a man asks you for money to help his family travel safely across a country that’s at war. I can’t help but feel my soul stir when a patriarch explains the impact of a limited potable water supply at the group of houses where his immediate and extended family live. And a little bit of shame at my abundance can’t help but follow when I see children scramble to answer a question at the reward of a mere pencil. A metal pen can damn-near start a riot.

Children play here. Not the drone-like tapping of buttons and fantasy of video games, but real games. These games are often physical, true reflections of life and educate children on the rewards and consequences of status and position as well as winning and losing. I like watching them interact with each other. Language is no barrier to understanding the simple group dynamics of children. I watch from afar and can derive who the bullies, the plebes, and the statesmen in the packs of children are. The underdogs are the most entertaining, as they try to find a role and make their voices heard. These dynamics are visible on the soccer pitch or the random street games we witness during our trips among the locals.

“War changes a man.” That cliché is almost laughable considering my relatively safe conditions and the many times I’ve heard it stated in varying forms in B-movies, but I have to qualify the meaning of the statement for me. I may not ever lose my realist approach to evaluating data, organizations, or situations, but I will never again ignore the importance of the human element when doing those things. Humanity is on parade here in Iraq and the variables it produces make predictability and easy, black-and-white analysis spotty at best. I ignore it at my own peril—that statement more literal than figurative here. Lesson finally learned Dr. Haley.

The Boy

2008-04-06T17:05:00.002-05:00

We are grown men, but inside, just boys.

I came upon the situation during the course of my normal rounds supervising the operations of soldiers at the Port of Entry that we work at occasionally. My soldiers were having what appeared to be an emotional discussion with a group of five women, wearing the traditional black dress and head covering, or hijab and three children—two boys and a girl, each between seven and eight years of age. The group opened up to me and my interpreter as I began to inquire about the nature of the discussion.

It is easy to get lost in emotion when discussing issues concerning national borders. What is too often lost, as we witness in our own American discussion of borders, is the importance of border control and the purposes it serves. Border stations and ports of entry regulate the transfer of people from one nation to another, decreasing dependence upon one nation’s infrastructure and services vice another’s. They regulate commerce and the transfer of resources between nations. They provide a channel where countries can monitor those leaving and coming. Border control and the elements that enforce it are necessary. It doesn’t make the business of it all any more palatable though.

The woman at the center of the discussion was speaking frantically and waiving passports at me. My soldiers were explaining her concerns piecemeal to me between her frantic pleas. My interpreter was explaining her every word as I tried to discern all that was being said from three different parties. During the verbal chaos, I locked my vision on the young boy standing at her feet, looking up at me. He was roughly half my height and I couldn’t help but notice the burns he had on his forehead and down the right side of his face. They continued, no doubt, past the point that the facial burns disappeared under the collar of his t-shirt, and appeared again from under the cuff of his right t-shirt sleeve. His stare was piercing, from eyes that were a deep brown. Even with his burns, I couldn’t help but notice how handsome the boy was, aided by an olive tone and a crop of well-groomed black hair that his mother seemed to constantly have one hand on.

The woman was explaining that she was Iranian and the boy’s father was Iraqi. Due to a number of reasons, the port of entry was closed per the order of the Iraqi and Iranian Governments except to let Iranians return to Iran from Iraq and Iraqis to return to Iraq from Iran. Few, if any exceptions were made. The ladies were allowed through the gates, as was proper, to leave to Iran. Two-hundred meters away were their husbands, watching through a fence as their wives and these three children started the near kilometer and a half march towards Iran. Instead of just leaving, these women took the opportunity to argue to allow this boy and their husbands to come through as an exception to policy. The boy that completely held my stare, though being Iraqi, would probably get through with his mother considering his Iranian resident visa. The husbands would not be going through. I was lucky that I was not the one to have to let them know this.

After some deliberation, it was decided that we would walk to the offices of the port of entry officials that might be able to resolve the issue. Because of what I thought was a unique situation, the officials called the proper ministry officials to seek an exception for this boy to leave Iraq into Iran. Then began a waiting game. The officials waited by the phone as, presumably, Baghdad considered the issue and came back with an answer. I waited as the group of women sobbed at their predicament, thinking of their husbands awaiting word. I felt them staring at me, waiting for me to return the answer they so desperately wanted to hear. I felt hopeless, knowing that the decision was not mine to make, but the Iraqi Government’s. Over an hour passed as they sat on the ground propped up by a concrete wall. I went over to them to ask them for their continued patience. In my right hand, I held a half-empty bottle of water that I had been drinking to quell my thirst in the over-eighty degree heat. The woman that had led the vehement verbal charge to get her husband and the husbands of the four other women into Iran cupped her hand and held it under my bottle. Instantly, I was flushed with embarrassment as I turned over the bottle and poured it into her hand. She took the water and splashed it on her son’s tear-stained face. My soldiers, noticing the condition of these travelers, instantly ran to their coolers and handed bottled water to them. Then, it happened.

The boy who had been quiet the entire time as the adults spoke about what was to happen with him and his family spoke up. His voice was passionate, firm, and surprisingly loud. He pointed at us and toward Iran as his mother reached to hold her hand over his mouth. He would have nothing of it. He explained that he was tired and wanted to go home. His mother explained that they had been waiting at the Port of Entry gate for close to three days and asked us to excuse the boy’s disrespect. The boy went on to say that he wanted to go back to school before he was released for not returning. His mother interjected that he was a top student at his school. Then the boy’s face started to contort as he fought back tears. This boy, barely eight years old at the most, threw his hands down and slapped his thighs and said, “…and I want my father to come with us. I want my father.” This boy cried unashamed as he was pulled to his mother and then into what seemed like a sea of hijab as the other women joined in his crying.

Instantly, I left them and went to the officials. As if choreographed, the order came to let these boys and their fathers go. I returned to them to witness their notification of the outcome, and felt the flood of human joy that occurred when the news was delivered. The boy hugged his young friends and screamed with joy. I told my translator to have them go back and get their bags and their fathers to leave for Iran. They left directly.

After a few more minutes I went to my truck along with some of my soldiers. We were going away on another mission but would return later. As we pulled out of the front gate, I had my driver pull over. I wanted to ensure that the group of women and the children were getting their things together and preparing to leave. Plus, I wanted to shake this young man’s hand before I left the area. For two hours, he had comprised my life’s every motivation. The group that he was with was just scenery. His mother got them to the officials, but his passionate plea made us move to demand an answer. And it was the right answer. He was returning home.

I walked towards a group of approximately twenty-five people standing at the gate of the port of entry with my interpreter for a quick stop to encourage them to hurry. First, a man approached me with a tug at my sleeve and an all-too-familiar, “Mister? Mister?” He brought me a clearly mentally-handicapped young girl. He shoved some documents into my face. Then, came another group. Then, a family. A man in a wheelchair approached. Each of them had documents explaining their reasons for needing to go to Iran. My interpreter tried desperately to explain what he was hearing from all parties and telling me about each of their efforts to cross the border. The group of twenty-five had quickly become a group of a hundred, then two hundred. I looked into the crowd and there he was—the boy, now with a pouty lower lip and inquisitive stare that asked, “What are you doing to help me?” I traced his burnt right arm up to his small hand that was linked to his father’s. I looked deep into his father’s teary eyes and knew that I had done something right today as he nodded his head in appreciation towards me. Over the din of requests and demands that I had no remedy for, I yelled for my interpreter to leave the people and get back to our vehicle. He could not seem to pry away, answering questions and sympathizing with all of those that told him of their situations. Finally, I made it to the rear of our vehicle and turned to yell at him, twenty meters away, to hurry. Instead, my gaze was met by an older gentleman who was crying and leading a blind young girl towards me. I couldn’t understand his pleas; thank God I couldn’t. I got into my vehicle as my interpreter finally returned. We drove away. I knew that we could not help them all, but we had done our small part and that passionate little boy would be home with his father and mother, his friends, and the other families that he had inadvertently argued for. It gave me a sense of accomplishment. Hollow, but a sense of accomplishment.

End of story…

Two hours later, my sense of accomplishment suffered a death blow. Among the crowd, I caught a glance of the boy, still standing with his parents, wearing a mixed expression of hopelessness and frustration. Again, out of all these people and all of the soldiers I rode with, the boy seemed to be staring right at me. Once parked, I carried his transferred anger straight to the officials to find out what had happened. In my absence, there was a call by the Government of Iraq to completely shut down the port of entry, NO EXCEPTIONS! The reasoning for closing the border was sound. Believe it or not, it was sensible. During the course of returning to his father, collecting their things, and finding a way to get their things past the gate and all the way to the actual border, the call had come down to do that which I most feared earlier, close the gates completely. The boy that had touched me so deeply was going nowhere, at least not until another call was made to open the border again. He was representative of hundreds more that would wait impatiently for word that they could return home or for the improved health care provided in Iran.

I further came to find out that the boy and his mother could have still left due to the earlier decision, just not with the boy’s father. It was described to me that instead of taking the privilege that the exception to policy allowed for them and returning home, the boy absolutely refused to leave his father behind. That made the decision final. The boy and his family would be here in Iraq for an indefinite period until the decision to open the port of entry is made. My mini-victory was gone.

I left the port of entry dejected. My dejection was only compounded by an event that even I wouldn’t believe if it didn’t happen to me or I didn’t see it for myself. As we left the port of entry after our day’s work, we pulled through a gate opposite the crowds that now await the opening of the gates to return home. Out of this crowd, at a dead sprint, the boy came running towards my vehicle with arms outstretched and crying. I can only wonder what he was screaming toward us…toward me. I guessed, “why?” or “help us.” Transplanted in me was a small bit of that boy’s hopelessness. I looked away out the opposite window. I imagine he thought I could solve his problems, but there was nothing I could do.

This boy reminded me of a number of life lessons today. He reminded me of the power of a passionate argument delivered with conviction. He reminded me of the fleeting nature of joy. Most of all, coming from a world where we eschew familial authority and family ties are sometimes broken ties, this boy reminded me of the importance of family.

When the moment came for him to leave his father, instead of leaving for the comforts of his home, his school, and even with the company of his mother, this young boy decided there was no way he was leaving Iraq without his father. Tonight I go to bed with an image in my head of that boy gripping his father’s hand among hundreds of people. I’m a grown man in my thirties, but tonight, on the eve of my father’s birthday, I’m just a boy that wants to be with his dad.

The Retirement List

2008-03-31T16:24:00.000-05:00

I recently passed ten years in the Army. You never know what’s around life’s next corner, but I suspect that I will see this Army thing through its preliminary finish line of retirement at twenty years. Whether I go past that, we’ll see. At this crucial halfway period, I can’t help but think about where the next phase of my life will occur.

The Army has afforded me the opportunity to see a lot of places and catalog what I like and don’t like about them. My wife Lyndi and I discuss each of the points and put our favorite places on our “retirement list”: a list of places that we see ourselves perhaps setting up the next chapter of our lives together. The list is long, but getting shorter as the years pass. We enjoy discussing our future in this context.

Being in Iraq has forced me to do a mental inventory of what is truly important in my life. I look back on that retirement list and I find there is one common thing about them all—my Lyndi is in every image. It really doesn’t matter where I’m at, so long as she’s there with me. She was there before I joined the Army and, God willing, will be there when I leave it.

Tomorrow, I will miss another wedding anniversary with my best friend and wonderful, loving wife Lyndi. Still, even though she’s at home and I’m here, my mind will have us walking hand-in-hand, starting the next chapter of our lives in a place that’s on that “retirement list”.

My Dalai Lama

2008-03-29T15:13:00.000-05:00

I love going home to visit my mother. It is always nice to leave the demanding world that is adulthood and enjoy the comforts of maternal care. My mother is older now so I appreciate the time I have with her so much more than when I was battling chronic smartassialimmaturiation syndrome. Its symptoms include excessive eyerolling and sarcasm. It’s something my mother and I have battled for years. With the help of her comments (“you stupid or sumsing?” and “why you so dumb?”) and occasional slaps to the face, I’ve dealt with my sickness, though it occasionally shows its ugly head. Yes, I was an abused child growing up, and I deserved almost every physical and mental beating o’ the ass I received. My mother is my Dalai Lama, and she sets me straight. It’s necessary. Visiting home is a mixed bag, though.

The food is always fantastic. It’s incredible how she can just slap together a restaurant-quality meal in ten minutes. If my mother was on Iron Chef, I’m convinced that she would wait until the last ten minutes and slap together some bulgogi and rice with some egg rolls and she would win in a landslide. The first 50 minutes of the show would involve her asking the host if he was married and if, not, why he wasn’t and whether or not he was “homosex”. She would probably ask the female co-host if she was an actual blonde and “why you dressa likuh slut? I betta you mommy no likuh everybody seeuh you titty. I just saying.” And there is no such thing as small quantities. Despite her arthritis, which she’ll remind me of every few minutes, she’ll make enough food for a battalion while I’m trying to digest my first dish. I then have to play a careful game. I, of course, tell her everything’s great, but if I am somehow not convincing enough, she will then ask me, “Wussa matta? You no likuh?” If my ensuing response, again, lacks integrity, then she destroys me--“Why you no say you no likuh? I nevuh make for you again!” And I spend the rest of my long visit scrounging for leftovers…there is only enough left for fifty more people though. The woman’s a machine!

My mother is a drug dealer. No, nothing illicit, but she’s got the best stuff. Just ask her. There are two categories of drugs. First, there are the ones she offers you when you tell her you’re not feeling good. Inevitably, she will force upon you some unmarked bottle of pills she bought from the local Korean grocery that will be sure to clear up your ills. When I ask what it is, I get the hurt, almost whispered response, “Loy (she can’t pronounce my name), I you mommy. You sink I try to kill you or sumsing?”

I respond with, “No ma, I just really trust the FDA and their whole testing and approving new drugs thing they do, that’s all. What are these pills anyway?” Her response is the, “oh, you sooooo smart” conversation. Usually, she finally reveals the contents of the bottle as something like cat hair oil extract.

“And what’s this supposed to do for me,” I ask.

“ISSA GOOD FOR YOU! You shood trusta mommy!” Yes, I should, but…

The next drug category is the drugs she takes for herself. “Loy, wassa this say,” she asks peering at a prescription bottle through the upper (or lower, who knows?) half of her bifocals.

“It’s the drugs the doctor told you to take, so take them,” I respond.

After pursing her lips and looking at me like I’m an idiot, she returns, “I know. How many? Doctor say takuh two a day,” then she whispers, “I no likuh that doctor; she crayjee. I thinkuh she makuh money.”

“I’m sure that’s it mama. I bet she doesn’t even have a medical degree. She’s just a snake oil salesman.”

“Why you say snake oil? Issa not snake oil.”

“No, it’s an expression. Never mind. Take the pills.”

“Okay, but I thinka she not right. Deeza pills no work. I yoozuh my Korean pill.”

“You win ma. Don’t take the pills.”

“You crajee? I HAVE TO TAKE THEM!” Yes, it actually happens that way.

For some reason, my mother is a fan of buying in bulk. This puzzles me because it’s only her and my father living in their house. She buys five huge boxes of laundry detergent at a time and for some reason, Spray ‘n Wash bottles by the box. If Spray ‘n Wash were currency, my mother would be Warren Buffet. If I tell her I like a certain type of drink, like I did years ago with Diet Dr. Pepper, I get two twenty-four packs given to me at the end of my visit. My son told her he like Sunny Delight when he was two and still goes home with a value pack of like forty bottles. I also get all of the leftover, well, leftovers that I couldn’t finish during my visit. Never mind that my truck’s interior will develop a permanent egg roll smell during my seven hour drive home, I’m taking it and I’m going to appreciate it—or else. Nothing goes better with all of that than a packing box full of apples and five or six bags of homemade beef jerky. It’s as if she’s preparing me for a twisted trip up the Oregon Trail or something.

So, I’m a few months out from visiting that wonderful woman and can’t wait for the drama…and comedy. She, unbeknownst to her, is one of the funniest characters in this sitcom I call my life.

Sure. Why Not?

2008-03-15T14:41:00.000-05:00

“Sir, you wanna go on a short foot patrol?” he asked.

“Sure. Why not?” I replied.

That short exchange between one of my sergeants and I was the beginning of a small adventure that will forever join the litany of stories I tell whenever I have too much to drink. Either I get better at telling the story after a few brews, or people humor me more.

We got to the Iraqi fort early in the morning. To our knowledge, we were in for a short walk, allowing us to witness the patrolling prowess of our Iraqi brethren. We were going to walk the border with Iran checking for various things that we check for when checks have to be made…I’d say more, but then I’d have to kill you.

We were all strapped with our weaponry, ready for any encounter, one with an Iraqi Death Scorpion (not a real species, that’s just what I call them) being the most likely and most daunting. A 40mm grenade from my M203 Grenade Launcher might seem a bit much for a scorpion, but until you have seen one of these beasts up close, you shouldn’t judge me. They’re freakin’ scary!

Staff Sergeant Alan (name changed because I can, and frankly it makes it seem like the story’s more interesting than it really is) assured the small band of Americans before we headed out that it would be a short jaunt up a road heading east toward Iran. We’d be back in no time. So, I smiled a confident smirk and winked at those around me as if to say, “No sweat. Be back for lunch guys.”

We started walking down this improved road, heavily bombarded decades earlier in the war between Iran and Iraq. The site was picturesque. The road went straight into the horizon highlighted by distant mountains with the sun up and to its right. At a lesser height stood a distant building covered by a translucent haze—an Iranian border fort. It stood as a reminder that even short jaunts can render harm to the unprepared. There were only a few Americans walking with this patrol. Our Iraqi counterparts were ahead, marching dutifully along performing well-rehearsed formations and actions. They were very impressive and obviously competent. Forty minutes passed like a light going out. Even still, we were only what seemed like a few hundred meters down the road. The mountainous Iranian region ahead just bobbed in the distance. I reassured myself, “No sweat. This is easy stuff. I’ve done this a million times in the past.”

For some unknown reason, I’ve lived my life thinking that I am greater than the person I see in the mirror. Perhaps my parents are keeping from me the story of when they discovered me in a fallen meteor from an unknown, distant planet. Yeah, and I’m, like, super-strong and stuff. I think it’s a byproduct of too many movies as a kid. Most men have it I think, but I’ve done things in my three-plus decades that have really tested that line of thinking. Such as the five-year-old me in this exchange: “Roy, let me shoot you in the back with my BB gun. I’ll only pump it once. Promise.”

“It’s not gonna break the skin, right? My mom will be pissed!”

Or later, in this wonderful example of advanced intellect: “Dude, you can jump my bike, but watch out for that stump after you land because I don’t have any brakes.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Got it. What am I? Stupid?” I responded. Why? Because, well, I’m a dumbass. My wife and my mother are two humans keenly aware of this. The male members of my family I’m sure agree with the dumbass description, but only because I failed where secretly, they know they could have taken the BB in the back and they would have jumped that ensuing stump on the brakeless BMX. Just think, the previous were only two pieces of dialogue that indicate my feeble-minded attempts to prove that humans, even half-way intelligent ones, just aren’t meant to be immortal.

All of this brings me back to, “Sir, you wanna go on a short foot patrol?” Sound vaguely familiar?

Anyway, we left the improved road swinging a wide right. At this point, I’m wondering when we’re going to start heading back, while assuring myself that things can’t get much more difficult. “What’s a little sweat?” I ask myself.

The road quickly started heading upward. No, not north, but up. Peaks and valleys, peaks and valleys. Twenty feet up, twenty feet down; all the while trying to keep my footing so as to not look like a jackass in front of the Iraqis. We stop at an old, destroyed fort that the Iraqis tell me used to be a battalion headquarters. Cool. I do a radio check to the vehicles supporting us in the rear. Okay, they don’t sound like Neil Armstrong yet, so we haven’t gone that far. When the voice on the other end sounds scratchy and barely readable, I always think of the guy back in Houston who had to take the Neil Armstrong first step on the moon call. I’m sure if it was me, I would have been at the radar screen pulling off my headset and asking the guy beside me, “What did he say? ‘One small tepid hand? One giant heap of land mines?’ What the hell does that mean?”

So, we marched on, straight up the side of a large hill and out of view of our supporting elements. Doubt started to creep into my head. “Man, I thought we were going to start heading back. Maybe we’ll turn around after another mile or so.” SSG Jon (another fake name…isn’t that cool?) starts to compare this march with the ones we used to do back in Korea. “Yeah,” I respond shortly. The short response was not really for any particular reason besides trying to maintain my “fat-man wheezing” breathing technique. The hill continued up and up and slowly became a range of hills, dipping down on one end of a hill before heading up another hill. The only solace was the beautiful view into Iran. The valley we were looking down upon has hardly been touched in decades and looks not unlike Arizona with patches of green strewn about.

Then came the wind. For anyone that hasn’t been in a sandstorm, it’s hard to appreciate its power. The whipping winds sandblast your face and gets into every opening in your clothes and equipment. It sucks as it blows…so to speak. We withstood this as we went into our third hour of walking. Luckily, my Garmin Legend HC still had us safely within the Iraqi border, because seeing much past the guy in front of me was impossible. The immortal in me was quickly asking for the back door. “Hey, how long is this march anyway?” I asked myself. I started to notice some of the Iraqis in the back of their formation, looking back at me with eyes asking the same question. I just did my best Man of Steel smile and gave the no-need-for-translation thumbs-up.

And we continued. Another three hours of uphill climbing. The Superman inside of me continued to swallow kryptonite until I started to smell the barn. As my GPS showed that I was headed for home, the bravado was back, though I quietly thanked my inner-Woody Allen for keeping his pie-hole shut throughout the long march. As I strutted past my new Iraqi brethren (a brotherhood borne of sweat and trials dealt with in the hills between Iraq and Iran…or something like that) at the end of our mini-Bataan Death March reenactment, I commended them on a job well done, feeling a little like Russell Crowe giving confidence to his legion before battling the barbarian horde in the beginning of Gladiator. Then, I promptly went to my vehicle seat and fought back tears. Holy crap! To this day, my freakin’ legs are killing me and I’m walking a little like Yosemite Sam. I came away from that long trek realizing that I am a little less super than I think I am and that I should start making better decisions, like, oh, I don’t know, not hiking into the hills between countries that hate each other with a 60-pound kit and an impending sandstorm on its way. Yeah, maybe I’ll do that.

Knowing me, though, when the next challenge comes I’ll probably answer, “Sure. Why not?”

Surrounded by Greatness

2008-03-02T13:20:00.003-06:00

There is a wonderful scene in Saving Private Ryan where the men are sitting around discussing their lives prior to the war. For a soldier, the scene is reminiscent of many conversations had in foxholes, tents, and vehicles in varying places throughout the world. It’s amazing the span of subjects covered. From news to politics, religion to sports, over a deployment there usually isn’t ground we don’t or won’t tread at least once, if not a dozen times. Inevitably, like a Roman road, the talk always reaches women. The mastery that they have over us is complete, only enhanced by their absence. Oscar Hammerstein had the frustration right, though our setting is more than a bit less romantic than the South Pacific. Everyone talks about their Audrey Hepburns, every aspect of their beings embodying perfection and class. We sometimes complain about but openly miss our Katharine Hepburns, the hard-edged but beautiful-in-her-own-right headstrong ladies that reality actually blesses us with; and I stress “blesses” because we’re not high class men. We are just regular joes. And the conversation reflects.

We talk as teammates with a certain liberty, probably borne of circumstance, that we don’t have elsewhere. Some expose more than others, but ultimately we all expose all. It’s voyeuristic and exhibitionist at the same time. Like boys punching each other in the arms until one relents, we tell our stories, but we always keep the hardest punch in waiting just in case. The year is long and it’s too early to expose it all. After a while, we discover things initially covered by the posturing and facades—tall tales of prior experience, earned badges, medals and ribbons, outright lies. We discover pain. We discover substance.

A favorite professor of mine is fond of saying that the best and brightest don’t join the Army. He may even be right. But from my perspective, they’re pretty damned good people. And the conversation reflects.

Alive and Well

2008-02-29T16:00:00.002-06:00

I have to recount something that happened to me a couple of weeks ago. I can never do the moment justice for sure, but my effort, I feel, is necessary. It’s something that I will remember for the rest of my life.

An Iraqi gentleman and I were discussing the United States and its merits. He asked me, “what do you love most about America?” I responded through my translator, “America takes the world’s best and gives them the opportunity to flourish; to reach their fullest potential.” I continued, looking at my interpreter, “It’s like this man. We are working to make him an American citizen and there’s nothing he desires more. He tells me that his daughter wants to be a nurse in America when she grows up. I think that if she works hard and studies, she will be a nurse. He says his son wants to be an Officer in the American Army. There is nothing that his children can’t be, so long as they work hard enough for it. That’s what I love about my country.” My interpreter turned to the Iraqi gentlemen and as he began his translation, tears started streaming down his face. I blinked hard a few times as my eyes welled up too.

It was one of the most beautiful moments I’ve witnessed in my life. My interpreter understands wholeheartedly what so many Americans have forgotten or have never realized: the life that we live as an American is a privileged and valuable one. Whether you are born with a silver or plastic spoon in your mouth, you have more potential to pursue and reach your dreams in the United States than in any other place in the world.

The American Dream is not dead and it is certainly not a punchline. It lives, even thrives, but these days does more so out of its native soil. Especially during a presidential election year, the ground is tainted with pessimism and American self-loathing. That day, though, I saw the American Dream in the dusty sands of Iraq being tended by a man who is far from American, but wants more than anything to be one. The American Dream is alive and well. I see it here everyday.

Lessons of War

2008-02-20T13:26:00.001-06:00

Wars can shape generations for the good or the bad and can have a direct impact on society for decades, even centuries to come. I’ve learned some lessons here that I want to share with you. They are forever burned into my mind by the heat and fire of war.

YOU’VE GOT TO HAVE A GIMMICK. Men know this. Hugh Hefner has his smoking jacket. Douglas MacArthur had his pipe. Countless men are known for being cigar smokers. Some are known for having a particular saying. Way too many are known for their jackass Celtic tribal band that wraps their flabby bicep even though they have absolutely zero Celtic heritage. And numerous post their name in Japanese across the windshield of their Honda to remind all of us just how badass they are and how much we are missing by avoiding the Fast and Furious epic saga. I have wondered what, if I ever become worthy of a place in any portion of society’s long-term memory, I will be known for. I’ve scratched my head about this for literally dozens of minutes and have come up with an answer—Pringles. I will be known for always having Pringles close-at-hand. Now, I’m not a man of any particular stature at this point, and God forbid I ever am, because I would unleash my Pringles gimmick on the world with a vengeance. Can you imagine President Roy Nickerson holding up the opening of Cabinet meetings until I get the proper flavor of Pringles put in front of me? The sign to begin meetings would be the pop that comes with the release of compressed air from a brand new Pringles can. People would know to speed up their briefings as I come to the end of my can and lean my head forward to eat the remaining Pringles dust from my palm. When I visit other countries, they would have children spread Pringles at my feet and have choirs of children sing me the current Pringles jingle a la every presidential visit to an African country. BBC would report, “amidst the ubiquitous crackling of Pringles strewn at his feet, President Nickerson arrives in Uganda’s capital.” (I’ve never heard the word “ubiquitous” more than on BBC)

THERE ARE NO METROSEXUAL GEORGIAN MALES. These guys really love their testosterone. They crowd our little gym here with Mussolini-like machismo and walk around not unlike the Soviet powerlifters of old and have the yelps to match. I mean, honestly, if you’re trying to break a record for Mother Russia, I understand the MET-Rx sponsored scream as you throw the weights up. But don’t “pfff-pfff” me as you attempt a 125 pound bench press. It’s comedic. At least they have an ever-ready smile available…or not. They remind me of the goons that came to whoop Viggo Mortenson’s ass in Eastern Promises in the now world-famous (among Thai crossdressers) bathhouse scene. And do I have to see Viggo’s schlong any more than never? Got it. It’s gritty filmmaking. But it makes me about as uncomfortable as watching the Merrill Lynch bull drag its manhood along Wall Street in their commercials. I digress. Bottom line—Stalin’s boys could lighten the Ivan Drago façade a wee bit around this Patrol Base.

SHOOTING PAPER TARGETS EXCLUSIVELY IN THE FACE IS NOT ADVISED. I learned this today. While everyone else was shooting center-mass into “FBI targets” with their 9mm pistols, I decided that I should practice “dotting the eyes”. The stares are priceless and worth a smile. The truth is, being the last one to fire meant the targets were pretty tore up. The only portion of the target not torn to bits was the face. That part of the target would show me how bad my aim is. Unfortunately, the 9mm is one weapon I’m halfway decent with. I’m sure to be in counseling by next week. If I keep this up, I might be writing these from home sooner than I ever expected! Put another target up!

War is hell. I will forever carry the burdens of these lessons learned. I hope that the closest you’ll ever get to learning them are the pages of this blog.

The Life of a Celebrity

2008-02-13T17:29:00.004-06:00

I am blessed to have friends that are understanding of my life and career choices but would never want to do anything close to what I do. Most of their sentiments revolve around the hard living that I experience away from my family. I still understand. Even so, I enjoy my life immensely. Though you might think me mad, I find that I live a life very near to that of a celebrity and the lap of luxury. Little do you know…

I have free laundry service. A luxury normally reserved for those staying in swanky hotels is mine. I drop it off, I pick it up. That simple. Wow. If only my mother could see how far I’ve come…mainly because she knows for eighteen years she provided the same service God bless her.

I get meals cooked to order and I get as much as I want. If I have particular needs, the chef will accommodate. I can get it in the morning, afternoon, and the evening. I even have something called “midnight chow”. The only thing missing is candlelight and my lovely wife. When I walk in, everybody knows me and everyone else. We all smile and exchange warm greetings. Add Ted Danson and you could call this place “Cheers”, but it’s called “Chow Hall” or “DFAC”. DFAC, in my mind, stands for “Dining For A Celebrity” and Chow Hall sounds like a pricey Chinese restaurant.

I have a 24-hour gym membership. It’s not a drive across town. It’s practically right outside my door. Now, I have no excuse for not being physically fit, trim and handsome, just like the stars. Of course, an excuse is never far away.

People constantly want my autograph. I sign my name everyday. In fact, it’s demanded of me! I walk into my favorite restaurant and a guy holds out paper and insists I sign my name. I go to get gas, there’s another guy putting pen and paper to my face. Oh heck, anything for the fans.

It’s not all positive living this luxurious life. I’m always on the lookout for people trying to hurt me. I have to carry weapons and I constantly have people around me for my security. I ride in an armored motorcade with a trained entourage ready to kill at a moment’s notice should anyone try to bring me harm..

And the press—oh the press! It’s interesting to have them ask my opinions and monitor with genuine interest the details of what has become a truly mundane life here in Iraq. My actions, good or bad, can have an effect on people around the world. They can make or break government policy. They can stir emotion. There are fans and detractors worldwide. I’m sure this is what Brad Pitt feels like everyday.

Yes, the kid with the husky pants from a small town in Kentucky has finally made it. Coal miner past? No. But, who knows? Maybe the writers can put that in along with me overcoming a crippling childhood disease. I'm already starting to get teary-eyed. I wonder who will play me in the movie. Sounds like an Oscar.

A Slow Week

2008-01-25T12:26:00.000-06:00

This week has been a pretty slow week. Now, this is not something that I would express openly, because free time is inevitably filled in the Army. So, I quietly went about slacking here and there and huffed as if I was really busy when folks asked me to do something. I gave them that, “I guess…” roll of the eyes and knocked the task out and went back to getting my personal stuff done. I don’t apologize for this, because there has been very little personal time available to me since our arrival. We have been busy with our primary and alternate, secondary and contingency, and our “that’s-not-my-job-but-I’ll-do-it-anyway” missions. Yet slowly, I’ve been able to get my head above the water.

Because of the nature of my duties the last 48 hours, I’ve been able to “work” in my PT uniform for the most part. For those not in the military, basically it amounts to shorts and a t-shirt, each of which reminds me that I’m in the Army, long black pants that are made of a material that could probably keep astronauts warm in open space and consequently creates a rain forest in my crotch (my wife hates when I say that) and a gray jogging-suit style jacket that once again states the obvious—“ARMY”. Top it off with my tennies and voila, THE ARMY PHYSICAL FITNESS UNIFORM. Imagine Tony Soprano in the Army and you have your mental image. This attire worn for an extended period was a welcome change from the ACUs I had been wearing daily. I think I wore it too long though because I got that same feeling I used to get when I was sick and out of school for a week—the, “my God, I reek,” feeling. I’m sure that a Canadian Elk would have found my musty odor appealing, but I found it to be the motivation behind a well-deserved shower. I basically sat around and worked on projects I had previously set aside and studied my Arabic. I can now converse fluently with 3-year-olds throughout Iraq.

We did get to go down to the local market to buy some necessary goods. I like this activity because it allows us to interact with real Iraqis who are actually very sociable people. Later, I thought about it and wondered if I would walk up to a guy with multiple weapons and military equipment and looks vaguely like an extra from Starship Troopers. It also led me to wonder what stormtroopers from Star Wars do when they’re not working and why all of them have a stereotypical white-guy voice which jumped to me wondering why Tina Turner talks the way she does (She really talks like she did in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome!). Anyway, I conversed with a bundle of Iraqi children ranging from seven to eighteen. It was fun to listen to them ask questions, poke fun at their friends, and ask me for everything…EVERYTHING. If I only had a dinar for every time a kid asked for my really badass knife, I’d have almost fifty cents (the exchange rate is like 1217 ID to the Dollar). I have to say, though, it was all worth a smile and an occasional scream of laughter.

My roommate and boss, Major Ken, got into an awkward conversation with an Iraqi gentleman who is somewhat of a local celebrity in the area. He was an award-winning bodybuilder in the Seventies. Okay, easy enough. I often tell people I played Ricky Schroeder’s best friend on “Silver Spoons” and played the cute Asian kid on “Diff’rent Strokes”, but I can’t produce proof. This guy pulls out (yeah, he carries it around) copies of newspaper clippings from back then with pictures of his oiled body. Icky and strange. We nodded and smiled broadly, reserving the right to laugh hysterically later, and complimented him on his past accomplishments. He was a bit perturbed that Major Ken didn’t know that he was the Middle Eastern Light-Bantamweight Champion in 1974. As they conversed, he struck an occasional pose and then told Major Ken that he had a nice body…which promptly ended the conversation. Major Ken noted how strange it all was, so I hid the trophy I won in the fifth grade spelling bee and have since stopped correcting his spelling.

We rearranged the dorm-like-trailer-room again last night. Occasionally, I get these Vern Yip-like moments of inspiration and have to run with them. It all can be frustrating because I don’t have a Lowes or Home Depot down the street so that I can buy the shite I need to make my visions of decorating splendor come to life, but I make due. I still live on the top bunk, but with all of the changes…no, I still hate living on the top bunk. But, the room is nicer. It’s really open and airy for a room filled with military equipment, dirty clothes, and two thirty-plus gentlemen. The air fresheners help.

All this during a slow week.

General Petraeus and the River Fish

2008-01-18T14:45:00.000-06:00

I had the privilege of meeting General David Petraeus the other day. I sat across from him for lunch and we discussed plenty of subjects, mostly about the assembled group’s observations and opinions. He provided a fine example of great leadership. He genuinely listened to our concerns. He explained things from his perspective without coming across as elitist or operating “echelons above reality.” He made us feel welcome to speak our mind. I left a big fan of his. He’s a great American.

After our lunch, he did something unexpected. He had another appointment with some Iraqi generals and he had to go to their offices to meet with them. He looked at us and said, “let’s go.” My mind was saying, “uh, what?! This isn’t part of the plan.” But I just smiled and followed him. We went to where a feast was prepared in his honor. We were all standing around some tables totally spread with Iraqi delicacies. It was truly impressive and smelled delicious. Now, General Petraeus doesn’t know that I’m not a big fish eater. In fact, I’m sure he doesn’t know anything about me except I’m in dire need of a haircut. So I’m almost certain he doesn’t know that I’m not a fish eater at all. I just don’t like fish. But, right in front of me was a very large fish that was grilled. General Petraeus looked into his entourage straight at me and said, “eat the fish.” For a split second, my mind screamed, “come up with an excuse damn it! You hate fish! Tell him you’re allergic!” But instead, I plunged my hands into the grilled fish meat and started eating like an extra in the food scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. I don’t know if I hid my disdain for fish, but I sure as hell tried. “…mmmmm. I love this. This is great!” The response I heard through the ring of concentration keeping me from vomiting was, “yes, it is from one of our rivers.” WOW! Everyone must have heard the bubbling in my stomach that ensued.

It all reminded me of an experience I had about nine years ago in Korea. I was visiting my family there and I was on parade. My uncles were taking me to meet members of my mother’s family. The most interesting visit was my mother’s older sister. It was eerie. I met this woman who looked and sounded exactly like my mother, plus about ten years. Then, she proceeded to boss me like my mother, but using hangul and the little English that she knew. “Sit, sit.” I sat on the floor of a room in the center of her house across from my two uncles who were slowly getting more than little tipsy. They were getting sloshed. Apparently, I come from long line of rowdy Korean guys who like to, not wrestle, but rassle and punch each other. Not unlike my mother, my aunt immediately went to work gathering food for us to eat. I was thinking, “Great! Rice, a little kimchi, maybe some bulgogi.” Instead she placed a plastic coffee cup in front of me. She walked out again. My anticipation was slowly becoming fear. She returned with about six eggs…raw eggs from a nearby farm—the one on the other side of the door I was now sitting behind. She offered them to me speaking a soft, “eat. Fresh.” "Okay, I guess she’s going to cook up these babies." Instead, she cracked one open and put the egg stuff into the plastic cup. “WHAT THE ___!?” Then, she poured some soju over it.

Now, if you’ve never had soju, then you can’t truly appreciate what is happening in this story. Soju is an alcoholic beverage that I like to describe as a slow-crawling monkey that starts out really low on your legs and then begins a crawl up your back until it’s curled around your head beating the crap out of it. Most wake up the next day wondering why they are in a closet in Havana.

So, I drank it. Then, she proceeded to make another. I gave a polite, “no, I’m okay,” to which she responded, exactly like my mother, with a loud, “EAT!” Internally, I was instantly returned to the chubby eight-year-old kid with the “husky” sized pants. So, I drank the concoction down again. My uncles began screaming something about being a real Korean man and giving me noogies and crap. YAY! I don’t remember much after the third, because apparently, the egg helps guide the soju directly to the bloodstream as well as to the lowest point of my gastro-intestinal track. By the end of the night, I think I was giving the noogies and wrestling…or something like that. Have you ever woken up with a hangover and mud on your pants? Hmmmm. I don’t remember getting back to wherever I was staying at, but my uncles ensured it wasn’t a closet in Havana.

Anyway, the General Petraeus visit was great and an experience of a lifetime. Plus, it reminded me of another experience I will never forget, nor remember half of. The good news is I downed the Iraqi river fish and managed to move onto some of the best lamb I’ve ever eaten. The bad news is the rest of the night was spent in the library…but I wasn’t reading if you know what I mean. Figure it out.

An American Child

2008-01-11T19:08:00.001-06:00

If you’ve never heard it, there’s a great song by Phil Vassar called “American Child” that you should listen to. In it, he explains how lucky he is to have been born a child in America, “where dreams can grow wild”. It makes me think of all of the places in the world I’ve been privileged to live in and how lucky I am to have the United States to return home to. It’s a beautiful song that is truly one of my favorites. The other day, I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

We went out to a group of buildings we had been observing for a couple of days. Curiosity caused us to make a trip out to them. I was not part of the main group of folks conducting the official interaction that would occur there, so I was left to keep myself busy. I saw an Iraqi man observing us and speaking to a couple of sergeants I work with. The man was holding the hand of his two-year-old son while another son, eight-years-old, stood next to him. The children were beautiful. The smaller one did like any toddler would when a stranger approaches and reaches out his hand—he cowered behind his father’s leg and started to cry. We all laughed and encouraged him to talk to me, but to no avail. Considering I was clad in body armor and headgear, I could hardly blame him. His father was great to converse with and everything was going along great. I felt eyes staring at me though.

I turned to face the boy whose gaze was so intense. He watched me, seemingly in awe, until I offered him my handshake and some small talk. At the next uncomfortable silence, I asked him if he had a ball available. Instantly, he nodded in the affirmative and took off. After five minutes, I wondered if I had said something wrong and scared him. Then, he came bolting out with a soccer ball at his feet. For the next 30 minutes, my mind forgot the seventy pounds of body armor and ammunition that I was carrying and instead, I was lost kicking a ball to my new, young friend. After a few kicks, he started smiling and laughing as his sisters and female relatives peeked from behind a wall and giggled and pointed at the stupid American chasing and kicking a soccer ball around.

His olive skin and dark features made me think about a similar boy who lives thousands of miles away in the United States. As the Iraqi boy smiled, laughed and yelled out to his kin standing next to the mud huts, I couldn’t help but think of that other boy. The last thing I did with my son when I dropped him off with his mother was kick a soccer ball around as he showed me the tricks he could perform. My new Iraqi friend was doing the exact same thing, with a less-fancy, slightly-flat soccer ball. These two boys, a few years apart in age, are all too similar when they are at play, yet their futures could not be more dissimilar.

I thanked God that I have such a great son who will grow up in a true land of opportunity. I wondered how my young Iraqi friend would fare as he grew and what opportunities he would have. I shook his hand and told him, “I’m tired, but happy. Thank you very much!” I promised to bring a pump for his ball next time. I wish I could bring him a small sliver of a brighter future too.

“…and when I count my blessings, I thank God I was an American child.” I'm glad my son is too.

What up dog?

2008-01-11T18:12:00.000-06:00

I’ve done a lot of truly frightening things in the past few weeks. Many of the experiences I will remember vividly in cold-sweat inducing nightmares for the rest of my life. Yet yesterday brought the most frightening thing I’ve experienced so far. It had nothing to do with a clandestine enemy snooping about plotting to kill me. No exploding IEDs bringing a swift end to a good day. It was all about a dog.

Steel is a military working dog. Because of the great work he does for us, he has attained the official rank of Staff Sergeant. His training makes him tremendously effective against the enemy. One wrong move around Steel can bring you a bad day faster than a, well, regular, untrained dog could bring you a bad day. Staff Sergeant Steel was to be a passenger in my truck yesterday--right behind me. Frankly, it scared the poo-poo out of me.

Steel was raised to be protective of his owner or the structure he is inside of. I’ve seen a number of people chance upon the window of one of our Humvees and jump back startled at his intimidating bark. I’ve seen him take snaps at our Soldiers when they get too close for his comfort or they make a sudden, unintentional aggressive move toward him or his handler. Now, my neck would be exposed to him for an entire afternoon. Joy.

The dog handler, who is actually ranked lower than the dog, coached me to not be aggressive and to act cool…while this deadly beast sat ready to chew my jugular to chum. I put on my best Cesar Millan “leader of the pack” look and went about my business while the long, brown and black face of my killer stared at me. I bet he was wondering what Asian-American human male tastes like. Luckily for me, he never took the opportunity to chew off my face or maul my flesh. He just sat like the disciplined working dog that he is and awaited his handler’s commands, of which I’m happy to report have nothing to do with eating my head.

Unfortunately, my buttocks are still sore from the clenching I did during my time with the killer in the backseat.

I'm back...

2008-01-04T14:37:00.000-06:00

I'm terribly sorry that I've been so scarce lately. Unfortunately, being stationed along the border of Iran is not unlike being stationed on the moon and then locked in a minimum-security prison. Today, I got the very treasured luxury of personal internet. Now, I can surf the net to my heart's content without government restrictions. Now, instantly, most people think that I'm talking about some healthy internet porn habit. What I'm talking about though is the fact that the military restricts a lot of sites that use too much bandwidth and/or might jeopardize operational security (like blog sites), so I couldn't get to this site to keep you, my friends updated.

So, now that I'm back on, you might think that I would bombard you with exciting details of the last couple of weeks' action. Well, there's nothing really to report. What I can report is I am terribly busy. I have a number of jobs in addition to my primary job. I really don't mind being busy though because it keeps the time flying...and it has so far. Plus, I really believe in our mission and purpose here. I believe we can have a positive impact on the future of Iraq and the entire region. The Iraqis here have a genuine desire to live better lives and seek the security to do that. They are some great people that I've enjoyed interacting with. I think we can help them and the Government of Iraq do some great things for the future.

Okay, enough about that and more about me. I continue to live with my "battle buddy" Major Ken. We moved into what is, in effect, a dorm room. We have done a number of rearrangments and finally decided that the bunk-bed setup that has been the punchline to countless inside jokes ("I'm in my 30s and live in a bunk-bed...I have arrived!") is the best for maximizing space. We set that up early on. Of course, I have the top bunk. Yeah, it stinks. Remember how you used to always want to stay on the top bunk when you were a kid? Well, I've learned that I'm certainly not a kid anymore. The knees make interesting sounds as a grown man basically does what looks like a slow-motion "old-school", anti-Fosbury Flop high jump onto a bed sitting about six feet up. Then, it shakes with your every move. If this bed lasts the year with my ever-growing ass sleeping on it, I will be shocked.

Speaking of ever-growing, we eat very well here. The dining facility has some great food and the customer service is first rate. There is an abundance of food that is built to make me as fat as possible apparently. We have a gym facility here, but work doesn't allow me to get to it...okay, so that's kind of a lie but I keep telling it to myself.

Today provided a small victory. Major Ken and I have wanted to get a couch for the open space in our room since about the second we got here. It's an ideal place to watch really bad Italian soap operas and condescending Brits on BBC on our European satellite dish and to eat all of the wonderful snacks our loved ones send us. Well, today we worked out a deal and got an unused couch on the other side of the camp. Noting that it was a definite hike with a large couch to our new home, I waived down a "bongo truck", which is like a hobbit-version of a flatbed semi (think Tonka on steroids) and we put the couch on it. Then, just to do it, we sat on the couch as it rode on the back of the truck. The two-minute ride was filled with laughter at the coup we had just pulled off. It felt like the end of a critically-acclaimed war movie that everybody claims to like because they want to sound intelligent, but really don't. Just add the march from "A Bridge Too Far" as you see the truck pull off into the distance and you have the right mental image (and please don't think I dislike "A Bridge Too Far". It's one of my favorite movies of all time). It was just so campy that I had to laugh hysterically.

I've got to go to bed because tomorrow I've got to do Army stuff. If you've been holding your breath for my next blog entry, then you can exhale now. And I thank you for giving a crap about a guy at a lunar minimum security prison. Send cigarettes. We use them like currency here.

Little story

2007-12-21T03:47:00.000-06:00

In mid-November of this year, my father, mother, and I took my brother to Louisville’s Airport so he could return to Iraq after his R&R leave. My father and brother strode ahead as my brother went to make his ticketing arrangements. Walking beside me was my mother, looking pensive. She wore a half-smile on her face, the kind you have when you say, “oh well, there’s not much I can do to change this situation.” I can only speculate concerning what she was thinking about, but I imagine it had everything to do with the challenges and dangers that my brother would face upon his return to Iraq.

My mother is one of the toughest people I know. She came to the United States in her twenties with just about nothing. My father didn’t fly with her and my brother when they left Korea for the first time. He took a separate flight paid for by the government. She was left to explain to customs officials through broken English that her husband was a soldier who would soon come to pick her up. “I yell at those people!” She has often recounted to me that she hated the doubt and pity in their eyes when they believed she had been left. She had to wait for hours before my father came to explain the situation. His flight had come later than expected. For a strong-minded woman like my mother, the helplessness must have been excruciating.

Now, in an airport almost forty years later, I saw that same helplessness. The fiery, headstrong lady that raised us with an iron will and stronger hand looked more aged than ever. I put my arm around her and kissed her. It was the very least I could do for the person I admire more than any other in the world.

Heroes are usually larger than life. Mine is barely five feet, has gray-streaked hair, and peers through thick glasses. Heroes withstand enormous strife. Mine has lived through war, sickness and death in her family, and defeated cancer. My mother is my hero. She proved it again that day.

Yeah, like a poem and stuff

2007-12-21T03:41:00.000-06:00

It’s cold as ice on the other side, just empty space with to confide.
I speak through dark to no one’s ears. Whispered thoughts, but no one hears.
A lonely night in distant land makes me crave my lady’s hand.
For she alone can calm my fright and help me steer the sea of night
where doubt abounds of future near, through mind I look, but lens is smeared.
But soon the day will come to pass that I will lie with my dear lass.
And to my home I’ll leave this place with half a bed of empty space.

Blood Pressure Spike

2007-12-18T12:09:00.000-06:00

This was written on December 17th, 2007. Sorry, discretion won’t let me get more descriptive about today’s happenings.

I’m currently doing some last-minute training in the Baghdad area. It’s pretty incredible how life just goes along with few skips even though we are very aware of the contentious world around us. Today, the sounds of the war around us were heard and felt loud and clear. Even so, each of us just continued on with our personal business (it was after duty hours). For a second, I stopped, looked at another member of my team, smiled a nervous smirk, and collected my iPod and left the barracks for my nightly run. I don’t count our reactions as tough or anything as self-applauding as that. It felt more like resignation. “If something happens, it happens. We’ll react. Otherwise, I’ve got stuff to do.” I wonder how that will change once those “sounds” get closer.

Now, I’m going to bed. Let me know if there’s, oh, I don’t know, a war that needs to be fought or something.

Oh Brother!

2007-12-14T07:39:00.000-06:00

Yesterday (13DEC) was my last day at Stryker, part of the grand BIAP complex. I did a few necessary things and made some purchases. The most important thing I did was make perhaps my most expensive phone call ever. I couldn't find a way to make a simple phone call to my brother, who was, I later found out, only a few miles away. So I bit the bullet and purchased a cell phone and a card with prepaid minutes, something I didn't plan to do until I got to where I was going. The total damage was $130. But, it was worth it.

It's neat to see someone that you've seen a million times under different circumstances in an unfamiliar place. I got through to my brother, who "grabbed a vehicle" and came over to have dinner with me. He took care of me, giving me information that I needed for the coming months and warned me of popular pitfalls. Most of all, it was good to see a familiar face, one that my teammates said was uncannily similar to my own. He left after only a few hours, but the visit left me energized and more happy than I've been in days. He gave me an impressive knife (loaned it really) and someone asked me how much it cost me. I told them, "a lot of being made fun of in my youth." Everyone who witnessed the visit understood. Man, it's one of those moments in life...

Bumpy Ride

2007-12-14T07:34:00.000-06:00

We knew that we were leaving to fly into BIAP (Baghdad International Airport) today (12DEC). There was a designated time for us to pack our bag onto a truck and then load busses to head to the airport and leave. That designated time turned out to be wrong. A major from another team came into the establishment that I and a few members of my team were sitting at and said, “Busses are here. We’re leaving now.” We strolled back to the tent that had become a temporary home to find out that others had packed our rucksack and all we had to do was load the bus.

After a short bus ride (it could have been long, but I was too busy sleeping to notice), we made it to an airport of sorts and hopped onto a C-130 for BIAP. Now, anyone who has been on one knows this isn’t necessarily first class travel. It’s not unlike flying in a regular commercial aircraft, except remove the relatively comfortable seats, the bathrooms, and, uh, everything that hides the workings of an aircraft. You sit in full view of hissing hoses, wires, and colorful lights indicating things to the crew onboard the body of the aircraft. Like sardines, my comrades and I were crammed into the fuselage and buckled in for what promised to be a bumpy ride. The promise was kept. It was smooth until we approached Baghdad. The pilots performed evasive maneuvers toward the end of the flight and then began a sharp drop resulting in what felt like a few-thousand ton plop on the runway.

Now, mind you, I’ve done a lot of scary things in my time, to include jumping out of one of these C-130s, riding open-door NAP (near as possible) of the earth missions in helicopters, and eating some of my mother’s less appealing Korean food. This flight definitely made my top three scariest moments. Like I told my wife Lyndi during our phone call tonight, my face was saying, “this is nothing, just another day in the park,” but my mind and body were screaming out, “THIS SUCKS! WHY ARE YOU SUCH AN IDIOT ROY!?”

All is well now, though. I’m at beautiful Camp Striker. It’s aesthetically putrid, but it’s got good chow and a place that sells the best of bootleg movies…uh, if you’re into that sort of thing…I’m not! It kind of looks like a tribute to tombstones because it is surrounded by very tall, thick concrete blocks that look like their shorter cousins. They are also throughout the camp, surrounding groups of building involved in separate camp business. I made the tombstone observation and it was met with nervous laughter. After today’s flight, the nervousness was justified.

Getting away

2007-12-11T07:53:00.000-06:00

Perhaps to some, the issuing of a Soldier’s basic load of ammunition might seem a little mundane, yet a more cerebral lad might ponder the purpose of said ammunition resulting in that mundane task taking on an entirely new sense of gravity. And it did to this lad. We are leaving Kuwait soon, which is good because it means we are closer to getting home, yet paradoxically it is unnerving, because anything can happen “downrange”. Now, I’m not waxing philosophic about the meaning of war, nor am I complaining about my purpose here. There is just a weighty sense of transition that occurs when training is complete and “all that’s left is the doing.”

After that, we got a little time to ourselves which was quite nice. You have to understand a little bit about life on a camp like this to appreciate how valuable time away from all things Army is. Sitting in a tent and staring at the same bubbas you’re going to live with for an entire year can make one go mad. You may have read in one of my previous blogs that I was feeling a bit overfed (which is a nice way to say that I’ve been gaining weight here and in the weeks previous to leaving the States), so my battle buddy, Major Ken, and I went for a run. We left our weapons secured with other team members and ran a few miles. Wow, my running is a bit degraded after a couple of weeks of taking it easy. The pace was slow, but at least we did it and had fun laughing about how far we had let ourselves go during our leaves. I then showered and went to our local Green Beans coffee house, which is incredibly comfortable. It’s in a trailer with plush leather chairs and large, low-sitting coffee tables. I sat there and read, listened to my iPod, and studied my Arabic flash cards for about two hours while I enjoyed a strawberry smoothie. The ambiance of it all was almost ruined by the music blaring from the sound system. For some reason, Arabic men seem to like the same music 14-year old girls like…hmmmm. Anyway, my iPod effectively drowned all of that out and for a second, I was sitting in that Starbucks at Forbes and Craig in Pittsburgh. I went back to the tent and rested pretty darned good.

Now, “all that’s left is the doing.”

Enjoy your life

2007-12-08T14:20:00.000-06:00

I’ve been reminded of many things during my temporary stay here in Kuwait.

Personal hygiene is great! If I got the stankiness back in the States, I just hopped in the shower and basically, I hit reset on my hygiene level. Here, I don’t really have the time. When I finally do have time, I have to walk to a shower trailer carrying my shampoo, soap, wash cloth and towel, shower shoes and other personal hygiene items where I have a limited amount of time to shower. Now, mind you, I’m walking down a dusty trail as vehicles drive by throwing a mix of exhaust and dirt at me. Then, after my shower, I (sometimes) merely change my undergarments and slap on the same uniform I wore that day. This is mainly because the bulk of my things have been sent forward into Iraq and the stuff I do have here is hostage to a three-day laundry turnaround. Compound all of this with the fact that I live in a tent with fifty other men (some of whom are a little less conscious of their cleanliness than me) facing the same predicaments and you can imagine why I miss the ready-access to personal hygiene facilities like I have back home.

Clean bathrooms are lovely. My God. Bear with me while I vent on this subject and I promise to be tactful. Camp Buehring, Kuwait is largely populated with porta-johns which are regularly cleaned. Still, anyone who has been around a porta-john will tell you that it’s not the best-smelling thing in the world. Multiply that by literally thousands and you have a very unsavory result. I’ve grown accustomed to walking miles a day looking for a clean porta-john to take care of my business. Now, there is a large room on our way into the DFAC (dining facility) where everyone washes their hands before eating that is manned by a Pakistani gentleman that keeps it pristine. As I walk into it from the dirty, dusty world that is Camp Buehring, I feel like Neo stepping out of the matrix. It’s surreal. Of course, the same gentleman that cleans this hand-cleansing room cleans the DFAC bathroom, so, needless to say, I make it a point to take advantage of the wonderful accommodations there…daily. It’s almost a joke amongst my team. As much as I’m a butt of their jokes in this case, I noticed I’m not the only one who takes a daily sabbatical in the lovely DFAC latrines. Ladies and gentlemen, enjoy and never take for granted your clean home bathrooms. They are truly a blessing.

Eat less and exercise. Despite the popular clichés concerning Army “chow”, the modern dining facility provides excellent meals…excellent, multi-course, large meals. I feel like a competitive eater whenever I step into a DFAC. I am eating mass quantities. This would not be an issue if I could work it off. The problem is, despite having a state-of-the-art gym here at Buehring, I have a limited amount of clothing I don’t want to be stinking up, so I’m left just eating and growing. I’m well on my way to being Jabba the Hut or at least having a healthy set of women’s breasts. The shame they produce upon removing my shirt is only matched by my protruding belly. I will soon return to you a hairy, fat freak. Joy.

Taco Bell Kuwait

2007-12-05T15:35:00.002-06:00

So my "battle buddy" who is also my boss, Major Ken (I'll leave his last name anonymous because it's kind of cool) and I went to eat at Taco Bell tonight because we missed the dinner meal at the Dining Facility here at Camp Buehring, Kuwait. Now, I hate to admit it, but I've eaten at Taco Bells throughout the US no less than five times in the past year and a half. Each time, my experience has been progressively worse, crescendoing at my last visit in Manhattan, KS, where they got our order wrong and then stood around talking about the latest trials and tribulations of Britney Spears and/or Paris Hilton (in Spanish) while we stared at them like hungry lions watching a butcher cut a lamb's leg instead of setting things right and getting our order completed. That, my friends, is another blog.

Happily, I report to you that the service at this Taco Bell here in Kuwait was impeccable...relatively. I barely understood what the dude was saying, but he did his job with a smile and a quickness not readily witnessed of the standard American teenager making burrito supremes. I was impressed. The only thing that puzzled me was the employee dealing with my order was wearing a hat that said "Taco Bell Iraq". I turned to my boss and called him a poser. Or maybe he was pulled off the Taco Bell front lines for a little less stressful position here in Kuwait and just wanted to let everyone know that he had seen the "real shit" up north. If he keeps this up, I'm sure I will see him moved up, back to making tacos in a true combat zone. God bless him for doing his duty and making damned good chicken burrito supreme.

Swiss Family, Iraq-style

2007-12-02T18:29:00.000-06:00

Imagine you’re on a ship that’s sinking and you have to pack for the proverbial deserted island that you’re about to take a boat to. There are things that you absolutely have to take. Then, with the limited amount of space you have left, you have to stuff a bunch of things that will keep you from going mad from boredom. That’s the best way I can help you understand packing for a year in Iraq. It’s like Swiss Family Robinson, but not (how did they ever get that pipe organ to their island home?).

Keep in mind, I will be far from the vaunted Green Zone and its fast-food and shopping oases. I imagine “green” will be the least useful adjective in the next year. I’ve seen pictures of my new home. So, I packed my poop from the Army. This includes my weapons, my body armor, et cetera, et cetera. Whoever suggests that we as US Soldiers don’t have enough equipment has never had to carry the massive amounts of crap we have to a staging area. Most of it is necessary though some of it I am sure I will never use (do you really need that many knives and thermal underwear?). I have sent forward (which begins to ruin my sinking ship analogy) a bunch of “good-to-have” stuff. These include DVDs, computer games, news magazines (I’m an addict), clothing, a lamp, a booklight, books, hangers, and more thermal underwear (WHY!?) In addition, I’ve made arrangements with others to send me things like toiletries (the sinking ship stuff is now crap) and more current magazines (and no, it’s not porn). I have packed my carry-on with this computer I’m tapping away on now and its accoutrements (and I say it the French way), a PSP (an item my friend Mike Tharpe recommended, magazines (smelling a trend?), computer games (b/c I’m a nerd), a change of undies (leather and lace, because I'm sassy but still classy), toiletries (b/c I’m a civilized nerd), and my Arabic flashcards (b/c I’m a civilized nerd that’s trying to learn Arabic). All of this stuff is to keep me occupied during my flight over to Kuwait, that I imagine I will probably sleep through.

All I need now are some coconut bombs and a tiger trapped in a pit to fight off the fake-looking pirates (really, take a second and watch Swiss Family Robinson; it’s a joy).

My Thanksgiving Weekend

2007-11-29T01:43:00.000-06:00

The emotion and gravity surrounding my impending deployment to Iraq fluctuates from day-to-day. The conditions that exist during a holiday like Thanksgiving, though, make the significance of my next year exceptionally palpable. Being around family and friends as I take mental account of my affairs lends a large and necessary dose of reality to my reflection. Conversations that I’m sure are seemingly meaningless to those that I’m speaking with carry a lot of weight for me these days.

The conversations I had with my son, who just turned 13, were particularly poignant this past weekend. A few months before I left for Fort Riley to train for my deployment, I aimed to have profound discussions with him about his future, giving him guidance that would aid him in his future endeavors…or something like that. I wanted to give him the facts, The World according to Roy Nickerson. Man, I fell flat on my face. Everything I said sounded like a bad fortune cookie.

This weekend, though, I just wanted to be with him. I didn’t care what I said or what we talked about. I just wanted to spend time with him, to enjoy him. I ended up doing exactly what I failed to do in my earlier effort—I listened to him. I stopped trying to get him to snatch the pebble from my hand (if you don’t understand that reference, you need to go back and watch your 70’s television) and just had a normal, adult conversation with him. The result left me in awe. My simple question, “what are you learning in school,” was answered with a complex explanation of basic physics. He talked about his interest in chemistry and why he enjoys mathematics. He explained to me that he understands and appreciates the emphasis that his mother and I put on education. We even talked some politics and business. Best of all, we laughed—about everything.

It took the daunting event on my near horizon to make me stop trying so hard to be a good dad in the short amount of time I have with my son. I decided to just be. My reward for truly listening was a peace that comes from knowing the great man he will become is right around the corner. All I have to do is keep talking, and more importantly, listening to him.