I wrote this quick in reaction to the morning shows. Be forgiving on spelling and grammar.
I’ve been listening to the debate on health care reform this morning and wincing at all of the yelling. And it’s really reached that point. Lost in all of this yelling are a lot of good ideas. But being a believer in a free market with limited, yet effective government intervention, I’ve been kicking around an idea that is sure to be ignored.
Physicians Training Corps. The United States Military culls most of its officers from a program called Reserve Officer Training Corps, or ROTC. The current ROTC pays for most of tuition (it ranges depending upon service from a high percentage to complete tuition coverage) and provides stipends to pay for the inconveniences of college life…like food.
My proposal is that government pay for it. Okay, now wait. Before you flip out Mr. Conservative, hear me out. We admit that providing for the security of the United States and ensuring its interests are protected are important functions for the government to perform. Well, how many times have we heard in the last few months the argument that government should provide for the health care of all Americans? If you agree with that, then you should agree that the Physicians Training Corps (yeah, it needs a new, catchier name) or something similar that provides more doctors is a good idea. I have a few reasons for implementing this program.
First, providing this tuition or tuition breaks would clear the road for many prospective physicians that would otherwise be discouraged to pursue such an expensive education. Now, many will point to scholarship programs and government grant programs that already provide tuition assistance to these same prospective physicians. Well, if you’ve ever looked at these applications and the requirements for the money, you know that it can be a convoluted process and quite demanding on the student. I say cut out the minutiae. The program is simple: “Go become a doctor. We’ll pay for it.” Once again, take it easy and hold your criticism until you read the next paragraph.
Second, it would create more doctors. There has been much talk about the lack of doctors to even provide the care to all Americans and immigrants, both legal and illegal, that would receive government health care (yeah, you say that illegals won’t receive health care; except the proposed House bill says that if they pay in, they get service). My proposal would state doctors that take advantage of this program would be required to perform mandatory service at entry-level government salaries in low-cost, government clinics. Open them up in empty strip malls around the country. This will increase access to health care (increased supply) to answer the demand that absolutely everyone (yes, I’m purposely generalizing) is clamoring about (rationing, etc.).
Third, doctors would not be weighed down with student loans to pay off. Some of our doctors have huge debts coming out of school. Salaries reflect the need to provide for these doctors so that they can pay their debt. It’s expensive people! People complain about doctors making tons of cash, but their image is tainted by television which shows us plastic surgeons and private doctors working for rich people. Doctors live comfortably, sure. But they also bust their butts to get their education and on the back end provide a very important service to society.
Fourth, it’s government money that is not just given to people as a handout. It comes with a net reward to American society as a whole. You have more health care providers on the street. You have more educated Americans in an important field. You decrease health care costs for all by increasing supply (of health care…more doctors, remember?). The mandatory service at lower-cost clinics requirement pulls down overall prices and will force larger hospitals to decrease their prices in response.
People kick and scream about the dangers of bailouts and new entitlement programs. I agree; proposed health care legislation is estimated to cost us over 800 billion dollars! Yet with this, you can take one percent of a program like the current proposed health reform law to create this program that will provide a significant impact on our United States with a net positive result that might just be a lot bigger. Along the way we might just save hundreds of billions of dollars too.
Detractors will wonder whether the program will actually give us more doctors. A doctor’s education is difficult. This program will not change that. But if a few hundred more doctors a year come out of this program because the obstructive costs are decreased or even taken away for medical students, then that’s a good thing.
Detractors will say that there will be a loss in the form of wasted funds because many students will flunk out of medical school. I concede that is true. There will be some loss. It’s hard to predict the number of students who won’t be able to handle the rigors of this education. Yet the gains will be worth it.
Give the country what it needs: more doctors free of large student debt and required to serve the American public through mandatory service for a period to pay back their benefit.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
California University of Pennsylvania Speech; November 10, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Shut up and Salute?
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.
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.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Me Olde Truck
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Pretty Picture
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…
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…
Friday, October 17, 2008
America Through Foreign Eyes
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.
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
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.
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.
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