Although Lloyd is almost two, in many ways I consider this his first summer. The days of him sitting fixed in a sandbox and sticking foreign objects in his mouth are gone; he’s a full-fledged explorer now. Before and in spite of my eyes, our baby son has transformed into a little boy. He is fascinated by trucks (equally of the digging, emergency and hauling varieties), bugs, balls and roughhousing. But he also loves to cook, to vacuum clean, to play guitar and harmonica, to draw, to dance and sing, to read, to walk or just focus on some distant object for minutes at a time.

And now he loves bikes.

Bike-in-a-box

Bike-out-of-a-box

Bike ready for action

This month Lloyd tried out his new Laufrad (run bike) in our backyard. Inspired by the Flintstones, a Laufrad has no pedals and is instead propelled by pushing your feet directly off the ground. Once Lloyd hopped on it, he never looked back…or ahead…or in whatever direction he happened to be heading. Which is why we added this bell:

Ding-ding…or else!

The more American of you might recognize this mounted alarm device as a “baseball”. I found it at a local shop which displayed a rack of bicycle bells on the sidewalk. Tennis balls, soccer balls, golf balls, basketballs, bowling balls etc. I went into the store and asked for the baseball. The man behind the counter, in his late thirties perhaps, walked out to the rack to get the bell while I waited inside. A minute later he returned with the ball. A golf ball. I looked at the golf ball. “That’s a golf ball,” I said. He looked closely at the golf ball. “It is a golf ball,” he said. He continued looking at the golf ball for a few seconds, then said “Which one is the baseball?”

This brings me to the second reason I got him this particular bell: the bike we bought for Lloyd has to be the most common model on the German market. Three out of every five toddlers seem to be scooting themselves down the street on the very same bike of the same make, size and color. Such a thing can quickly disappear at the playground. To help those of you at home understand this better, imagine trying to find your SUV at a Wal*Mart parking lot or locate your khaki trousers again after coming out of the gym shower. Take your pick. How do you distinguish yourself in Germany amid a sea of uniformity? Easy: slap a baseball somewhere on you. Voilà! Instant sore thumb.

Godspeed, boy. I’m trying to keep up with you.

No one knew the idiosyncrasies of Americans and our limited understanding of our own government better than H. L. Mencken (1880–1956), one of the great American essayists, polemicists and social critics. In observance of National Barbecue Day, I offer you his ironic contribution toward improving our appreciation of July 4 beyond mere flag waving and pretty fireworks. The excerpt below is taken from his work, The American Language, printed in 1921. Its relevance to American society only grows over time.

1 [The following is my own translation, but I have had the aid of suggestions from various other scholars. It must be obvious that more than one section of the original is now quite unintelligible to the average American of the sort using the Common Speech. What would he make, for example, of such a sentence as this one: “He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures”? Or of this: “He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected, whereby the legislative powers, incapable of annihilation, have returned to the people at large for their exercise.” Such Johnsonian periods are quite beyond his comprehension, and no doubt the fact is at least partly to blame for the neglect upon which the Declaration has fallen in recent years. When, during the Wilson-Palmer saturnalia of oppressions, specialists in liberty began protesting that the Declaration plainly gave the people the right to alter the goverment under which they lived and even to abolish it altogether, they encountered the utmost incredulity. On more than one occasion, in fact, such an exegete was tarred and feathered by the shocked members of the American Legion, even after the Declaration had been read to them. What ailed them was that they could not understand its eighteenth century English. I make the suggestion that its circulation among such patriotic men, translated into the language they use every day, would serve to prevent, or, at all events, to diminish that sort of terrorism.]

2 When things get so balled up that the people of a country have to cut loose from some other country, and go it on their own hook, without asking no permission from nobody, excepting maybe God Almighty, then they ought to let everybody know why they done it, so that everybody can see they are on the level, and not trying to put nothing over on nobody.

3 All we got to say on this proposition is this: first, you and me is as good as anybody else, and maybe a damn sight better; second, nobody ain’t got no right to take away none of our rights; third, every man has got a right to live, to come and go as he pleases, and to have a good time however he likes, so long as he don’t interfere with nobody else. That any government that don’t give a man these rights ain’t worth a damn; also, people ought to choose the kind of goverment they want themselves, and nobody else ought to have no say in the matter. That whenever any goverment don’t do this, then the people have got a right to can it and put in one that will take care of their interests. Of course, that don’t mean having a revolution every day like them South American coons and yellow-bellies and Bolsheviki, or every time some job-holder does something he ain’t got no business to do. It is better to stand a little graft, etc., than to have revolutions all the time, like them coons and Bolsheviki, and any man that wasn’t a anarchist or one of them I. W. W.’s would say the same. But when things get so bad that a man ain’t hardly got no rights at all no more, but you might almost call him a slave, then everybody ought to get together and throw the grafters out, and put in new ones who won’t carry on so high and steal so much, and then watch them. This is the proposition the people of these Colonies is up against, and they have got tired of it, and won’t stand it no more. The administration of the present King, George III, has been rotten from the start, and when anybody kicked about it he always tried to get away with it by strong-arm work. Here is some of the rough stuff he has pulled:

4 He vetoed bills in the Legislature that everybody was in favor of, and hardly nobody was against.

5 He wouldn’t allow no law to be passed without it was first put up to him, and then he stuck it in his pocket and let on he forgot about it, and didn’t pay no attention to no kicks.

6 When people went to work and gone to him and asked him to put through a law about this or that, he give them their choice: either they had to shut down the Legislature and let him pass it all by him-self, or they couldn’t have it at all.

7 He made the Legislature meet at one-horse thank-towns out in the alfalfa belt, so that hardly nobody could get there and most ofthe leaders would stay home and let him go to work and do things as he pleased.

8 He give the Legislature the air, and sent the members home every time they stood up to him and give him a call-down.

9 When a Legislature was busted up he wouldn’t allow no new one to be elected, so that there wasn’t nobody left to run things, but anybody could walk in and do whatever they pleased.

10 He tried to scare people outen moving into these States, and made it so hard for a wop or one of them poor kikes to get his papers that he would rather stay home and not try it, and then, when he come in, he wouldn’t let him have no land, and so he either went home again or never come.

11 He monkeyed with the courts, and didn’t hire enough judges to do the work, and so a person had to wait so long for his case to come up that he got sick of waiting, and went home, and so never got what was coming to him.

12 He got the judges under his thumb by turning them out when they done anything he didn’t like, or holding up their salaries, so that they had to cough up or not get no money.

13 He made a lot of new jobs, and give them to loafers that nobody knowed nothing about, and the poor people had to pay the bill, whether they wanted to or not.

14 Without no war going on, he kept an army loafing around the country, no matter how much people kicked about it.

15 He let the army run things to suit theirself and never paid no attention whatsoever to nobody which didn’t wear no uniform.

16 He let grafters run loose, from God knows where, and give them the say in everything, and let them put over such things as the following:

17 Making poor people board and lodge a lot of soldiers they ain’t got no use for, and don’t want to see loafing around.

18 When the soldiers kill a man, framing it up so that they would get off.

19 Interfering with business.

20 Making us pay taxes without asking us whether we thought the things we had to pay taxes for was something that was worth paying taxes for or not.

21 When a man was arrested and asked for a jury trial, not letting him have no jury trial.

22 Chasing men out of the country, without being guilty of nothing, and trying them somewheres else for what they done here.

23 In countries that border on us, he put in bum goverments, and then tried to spread them out, so that by and by they would take in this country too, or make our own goverment as bum as they was. He never paid no attention whatever to the Constitution, but he went to work and repealed laws that everybody was satisfied with and hardly nobody was against, and tried to fix the goverment so that he could do whatever he pleased.

24 He busted up the Legislatures and let on he could do all the work better by himself.

25 Now he washes his hands of us and even declares war on us, so we don’t owe him nothing, and whatever authority he ever had he ain’t got no more.

26 He has burned down towns, shot down people like dogs, and raised hell against us out on the ocean.

27 He hired whole regiments of Dutch, etc., to fight us, and told them they could have anything they wanted if they could take it away from us, and sicked these Dutch, etc., on us without paying no attention whatever to international law.

28 He grabbed our own people when he found them in ships on the ocean, and shoved guns into their hands, and made them fight against us, no matter how much they didn’t want to.

29 He stirred up the Indians, and give them arms ammunition, and told them to go to it, and they have killed men, women and children, and don’t care which.

30 Every time he has went to work and pulled any of these things, we have went to work and put in a kick, but every time we have went to work and put in a kick he has went to work and did it again. When a man keeps on handing out such rough stuff all the time, all you can say is that he ain’t got no class and ain’t fitten to have no authority over people who have got any rights, and he ought to be kicked out.

31 When we complained to the English we didn’t get no more satisfaction. Almost every day we warned them that the politicians over there was doing things to us that they didn’t have no right to do. We kept on reminding them who we were, and what we was doing here, and how we come to come here. We asked them to get us a square deal, and told them that if this thing kept on we’d have to do something about it and maybe they wouldn’t like it. But the more we talked, the more they didn’t pay no attention to us. Therefore, if they ain’t for us they must be agin us, and we are ready to give them the fight of their lives, or to shake hands when it is over.

32 Therefore be it resolved, That we, the representatives of the people of the United States of America, in Congress assembled, hereby declare as follows: That the United States, which was the United Colonies in former times, is now free and independent, and ought to be; that we have throwed out the English Kings and don’t want to have nothing to do with him no more, and are not in England no more; and that,being as we are now free and independent, we can do anything that free and independent parties can do, especially declare war, make peace, sign treaties, go into business, etc. And we swear on the Bible on this proposition, one and all, and agree to stick to it no matter what happens, whether we win or we lose, and whether we get away with it or get the worst of it, no matter whether we lose all our property by it or even get hung for it.

Last Saturday we’d just settled Lloyd down to a long afternoon nap when, what to my wondering ears should appear but a whole lot of noise and a street full of queers. Unbeknownst to me, it was Christopher Street Day, aka Gay Pride Day, in Germany. We live in by far the most liberal part of town, the Neustadt, and so it was no surprise to see people of every age, creed and sexual orientation (Germany’s lacking a little in the color department) strolling down the middle of my street among floats carrying mammoth sound systems that made my skeleton hurt. Katrin and I stood on our front-row balcony to review the pageantry as it passed below us. The lively atmosphere was contagious, and we were soon bouncing in time to the beat – as much because the throbbing bass made it physically impossible not to as because we were caught up in the spirit of openness and celebration. Miraculously, Lloyd slept like a baby.

Friday morning after dropping Lloyd off at the childcare center, I made my usual visit to the bakery to get an Apfeltasche (apple turnover). I was informed by the young lady behind the counter that I could get three Apfeltaschen for the price of two as well as an Amerikaner for free. What is an Amerikaner? I now present to you…

Sweet and round – just like us.

It’s a soft, iced cookie that leaves a chemical aftertaste. I stopped buying them soon after I first came to Germany, when the novelty of ordering an “American” wore off. But here I stood in the bakery now, not only being offered one for free, but a discount on three apple turnovers to boot. Such deals rarely exist in Germany; if a German wants to buy only one of something, they usually want to buy only one of something. I wanted to buy only one apple turnover, but if I bought three of them, I’d only pay for two and get another pastry I don’t even like absolutely free. The decision was a no-brainer, i.e. a decision that can be made only by someone with no brain. The young lady packed everything up and sent me on my way with a full bag of empty satisfaction.

Barack Obama was in Dresden last Thursday and Friday for 16 hours on an unofficial visit. “Unofficial” means barricading the entire Old Town for two days at an overall cost of around €40 million. His stop here was more of a layover between two important visits to Cairo and Paris. Nevertheless, the president’s visit has been media-buzz fodder in these parts since it was announced earlier this spring. Katrin and I lived in Berlin and then Mainz when Bush visited those cities. Both times severe restrictions of movement and at times violent protests of tens of thousands of angry Europeans made the experience annoying. On this, the first visit of any American president to Dresden, the security was just as tight, but the atmosphere was one of excitement.

Best thing to happen to this town since the “Dime a brat” night of ’83

Walking home from the bakery, I saw a tram heading toward me. A sticker reading “Welcome Mr. President” spanned its windshield.

Punctual and hospitable

Odd, I thought, considering Obama’s not only not going to see the stickers, but probably not even any trams during his sojourn. But the locals weren’t going to let a little detail like the absence of the guest ruin their party in his honor. Beginning the day of his arrival and running long after he’d departed, the welcome festivities were more for the hosts anyway, a consolation for not getting to see the American president in person. Activities included such catoonishly “American” pastimes as cheerleading, mechanical bull riding and, what else, Elvis impersonators. I can’t imagine a festival at home without them.

All of the press and some of the public were busy chasing reports of Obama sightings here or there like children on a celebrity snipe hunt. One local paper featured a so-called online “Obama-Ticker,” which wasn’t a ticker at all but merely a pop-up window that provided the latest rumors on the prez’s whereabouts when you refreshed it. Meanwhile, the politicians were busy politicing. From Chancellor Merkel all the way down to local bottom-feeders like Saxony’s Minister President and Dresden’s mayor, everyone positioned and posed in this election year to be seen next to the man of the (16) hour(s). Even the pizza guy got in on it:

Free Bring with Buy of €20 or more!

After Obama’s cavalcade moved on, and his bed sheets either were submitted to the city’s museum or auctioned off on eBay, after the mechanical bulls, Elvises, cheerleaders and other American stereotypes were sent back to the Zirkus, after the last Denglish-riddled advertisement disappeared and the barricades were taken down, allowing the city to breathe again, it was up to the papers to make sense of what just happened. Always a bad idea.

Bigtalk about nothing

Most papers large and small, smoking a cigarette in post-presidential bliss, reflected that the “eyes of the world” were upon their city and thus, by logical extension, on them. The mayor, ready for her jump to Broadway from the high school auditorium stage, declared that global politics itself was coming to her jurisdiction, no doubt for a what-would-you-do-Helma tête-à-tête.

The Sächsische Zeitung, Saxony’s largest populist rag, made a rare break from its policy of featuring spring flowers, seasonal vegetables or children enjoying ice cream on its front page to dedicate four full pages to Obama’s sixteen-hour visit. Considering roughly eight of those were spent sleeping in a five-star hotel – and I assume local photographers weren’t permitted pajama exclusives – that frees up one page for every two hours of his stay, not even counting the refresh-clicking “Online-Ticker” coverage. And what came from the long-winded, incisive analysis of Saxony’s crack journalists? Nothing that faithful subscribers didn’t already know: Obama was here; the public didn’t see him. The headline of one article even teased the president about his pronunciation of Merkel as “Mörkel.” Ha ha. The irony in this is that the name Barack contains the phonetic bane of every German: the American “r.” Since the beginning of Obama’s presidential campaign, German radio and television media types have been flexing and arching their tongues like yoga pros to say “Barack” like Barack says “Barack.” Inevitably, the results either miss the mark entirely or are exaggerated like Ed Sullivan saying “really good show” in slow motion. Ha ha.

Ultimately, what the press and politicians seemed to miss but the citizens mostly understood was that nothing happened. A world figure came to admire their beautiful city; people used the occasion to enjoy themselves; then it was over. Maybe this or that political party will get a few more votes, maybe Dresden will see a boost in tourism. But in trying to make something bigger out of what this visit really was, you’re only going to get a full bag of empty satisfaction for €40 million.

And an Amerikaner for free.

March, April and May in Germany seem to offer an endless stream of public holidays. No sooner is Good Friday over than we take a big Easter Break. And before you’ve even made a dent in your Easter basket, the ironically named Labor Day gives us yet another well deserved breather. Clearly never having heard the phrase “too much of a good thing,” the Germans rise once again to the occasion with Ascension Thursday. And just when you’re beginning seriously to wonder if even the kitchen sink gets it’s own holiday in this country, there comes Pentecost Sunday, which, despite its name and for the sake of keeping spring entirely work-free, is also celebrated on a Monday.

Normally on such three-day weekends, families pack up the Skoda or Audi and head for remote (in cozy Europe any destination beyond 20 km) destinations: lakes, forests, grandparents etc. The forecast called for rain from Friday through Monday, however, dousing our own Pentecostal plans of grilling and chilling at the grandfolks, so we had to come up with ways to keep Lloyd entertained.

On Saturday we went to the Dresden Airport:

Off to the airport!

First we took the train.

We weren’t the only parents with this idea.

Our plan’s working!

I’d like this size, please.

Today, Sunday, we took our first trip to the Dresden Zoo.

Giraffe and zebras

Are you sure we’re safe?

Father and son

Zooming through the zoo

Let’s call it a morning.

How can we top that tomorrow?

***Update*** Thanks to Ann in the comments section for confirming that I was never cut out for the Catholic business. Whit Monday is an honest-to-goodness holiday. This only leads me to the question: Is there an inverse correlation between the religiosity of a country and the number of religious bank holidays? And if so, isn’t that a form of freeloading?

Peruse the front pages of your local newspaper from the month of April in any year, and I’ll wager at least one issue was sacrificed for that evergreen ritual of informing readers that after roughly three months of winter, spring is now here, as if the editors themselves had discovered it or at least were instrumental in negotiating its release. The word ‘finally’ is usually stuck in there for good measure, suggesting the annual season’s fortuitous arrival was no sure thing this time round, and we should be thankful. And just in case you’d forgotten what spring looks like, or how one is expected to behave during its roughly three-month reign, the article is accompanied by a picture of people eating ice cream, pale employees in short-sleeve shirts taking their lunch breaks near a fountain, or a young, athletic man throwing a frisbee to his dog. Seven times out of ten the picture’s subject will be framed by a foreground of colorful blossoms shooting out of the ground. This is headline news. Its purveyors are called journalists.

But what these intrepid story-breakers don’t want you to know is that spring has a dark side. After Katrin and I had read in the paper a few weeks ago that spring was finally here, we unboarded the windows and ventured into the out-of-doors to learn for ourselves just what all the fuss was about. With Lloyd in the stroller we headed for a neighborhood park in search of spring. And, in fact, along our route we saw indisputable evidence of a seasonal shift. There was a long line at the ice cream shop. People were taking their lunch breaks near fountains. Off in the distance, a young man was playing frisbee with his dog. So, it was true. And just when I was starting to think the papers were on to something, we got to the park and saw this:

This would be a lot more attractive…

…if flowers were in the foreground.

Apparently we weren’t the only ones who’d read the headline. Not only were we not the only ones to have got the news, the news was by now so old that people were already on to something else. The only sign that this park was recently teeming with humans was that it was now teeming with enough of their paper waste to start your own daily rag – so you could print the second half of this story. Such complete lack of consideration for others is hardly limited to the Neustadt, the neighborhood where we live, but it is far more widespread and one of the reasons our springs here are numbered. From April until September local public recreation areas will regularly be trashed, spoiling the fun for those who don’t want their toddlers picking up sticky paper plates or walking through broken beer bottles. Is it so hard to find a garbage can? Is it that tempting to smash your bottle against a tree trunk? Is it too challenging to remember others want to relax outside as well?

Is it autumn yet?

On an evening not long ago Katrin and I, regularly bound to our apartment beginning at Lloyd’s bedtime, received a rare visit from two friends who have no children of their own*. Over wine and guacamole they raved about a practice they’d recently discovered while on vacation called ear candling (aka auricular candling or coning). As I scooped some of the green, viscous dip onto a tortilla chip, they explained in detail how the process works. Ear candling, they’d learned, is a method of cleansing not only the ear, but the nasal passages and brain, of accumulated impurities. To do this you insert a wax cone into your outer ear canal, light it on fire, and allow the supposed low vacuum and heat to rid your head of all that ails it. “You can hear it working!” one friend said while the other nodded in enthusiastic confirmation. There’s a hissing sound that let’s you know it’s doing its job and, just as the candle removes residue dirt from your mind, the amorphous mass of extruded dross left behind removes any lingering doubt from your mind that it’s just another hoax. As I listened I continued stuffing goo-laden chips into my mouth, worried that if something weren’t going in, something might come out to end our precious social evening prematurely. Had they forgotten to pack their bullshit detectors before going on their trip? We let the infomercial play in its entirety, then changed channels by asking them how the snorkeling was in Mallorca and whether the water isn’t still too cold this time of year.

Normally a fairly skeptical bunch, many Germans seem to have a weakness for flim-flam panaceas and talismans, especially for those treatments associated with practically any and all aboriginal peoples. The rule seems to be: the more oppressed, abused and remote a people is, the more superior their healing arts vis-à-vis Western medicine. Wellness-Shops hawking miracle herbs, crystals, fêng shui accessories and dream catchers (of various sizes and plumage designed to entangle even the feistiest dreams) can be found in any neighborhood of the universally attuned and worldly-wise. This unguarded receptiveness to exotic remedies is extended to alternative medicines in general. In January an acquaintance hired me to coach him on his English pronunciation as he recorded his reading of local celeb Samuel Hahnemann’s Organon of Homoeopathic Medicine, the homeopath’s bible and some of the driest reading this side of the Congressional Record. My employer’s plan was to convert his recordings to a book-on-CD series, which, together with a dramatized documentary of Hahnemann’s life on DVD already in the editing stage, he would sell to an international market. “The German market has long been saturated with this stuff,” he said. “I want to spread the word!” Our regular meetings came to an abrupt end after only a few weeks, however, when the alternative entrepreneur, himself a strict practitioner of homeopathy, fell ill for a prolonged period. He hasn’t called since.

Whether manufactured in a pharma lab or concocted in a shaman’s fire pit, medicine is something I’ve always held back with a ten-foot pole. It’s not that I don’t get sick, though the occasions are rare, nor that I enjoy physical discomfort – I’m a bigger pantywaist than masculine dignity allows me to admit. My aversion to medicine stems from observing Americans’ childlike faith in cleverly marketed drugs and from an awareness of the notoriously symbiotic relationship between the pharmaceutical and medical industries (Ask your doctor about the blue pill a billboard in Atlanta once encouraged me to do). If a medication merely masks symptoms but doesn’t cure the illness, I’m usually not interested. If a sports car and trendy clothes don’t relieve me of my shallow personality, I’m still a jerk.

This week my head has been hosting a vindictive sinus infection. Now, I don’t say ‘sinus infection’ when I really mean a cold in the way many people say ‘migraine’ to mean ‘headache’, ‘miracle’ to mean ‘statistically improbable’ or ‘tragedy’ to mean ‘just dumb luck.’ What I mean with ‘sinus infection’ is that a steady stream of thin, toxic-green snot has been leaking from my nostrils for the last seven days while my eyes have felt like they’ve tripled in size and are being squeezed from their sockets by my orbital bones. I get them every few years when a seemingly harmless head cold decides to make itself comfortable and overstay its welcome. My approach in dealing with sinus infections is similar to how I cope with politicians, fashions or door-to-door soul savers: I wait until they go away. In some cases, as with politicians and soul savers – and some exceptionally persistent fashions like this and this – waiting doesn’t help, and the condition worsens. When I woke up Thursday morning with what felt like a pregnant whale wedged between my palate and brain, I realized this might take longer than I could stand. That evening when Katrin came home from work to find me slumped in a dining room chair, conscious but unresponsive, while Lloyd investigated the contents of the cutlery drawer, she suggested I try a Nasendusche – a “nose shower.” She explained the simple concept: you squirt warm salt water up your nose with a special syringe, and the water washes your sinuses, taking the impurities with it as it runs back out. It’s a very old technique, she said, and you can buy the contraption at any pharmacy. As she was telling me this, her head morphed from Chuck Norris to George Foreman before my half-shut eyes. “Couldn’t I just use one of the spare ear cones we’ve got lying around?” I asked, but she was already in the bathroom looking for the syringe. She came back out holding a designer turkey baster. “Here,” she handed me the object.

You know where to stick it. (Don’t you?)

When I squeezed the rubber bulb a hiss of air swept my face. “How long have we had this thing?” I asked. “I don’t know,” Katrin answered. “A while. I’ve used it a few times.” “Did it work?” I asked her, eying the device askance. “Pretty well, I think,” she said. “So I just shoot water up my nose with this thing, and it’ll clean me out, huh?” “Generally speaking, yes. Saltwater, though.” “How much salt?” “I don’t know.” I went to the Internet. Technically, Nasendusche is the same principle using different equipment, so I had to find the English word. After typing in “clean infected nose with rubber bulb,” I came upon the term “nasal lavage” as well as an instructional video from the Mayo Clinic. My suspicions faded; suddenly the process took on a more respectable air. This wasn’t only endorsed by a German Apotheke, which will give refuge to homeopathic potions right next to the medicine, this was the Mayo Clinic. After watching the video I was ready. I added a small amount of salt to a liter of water, sucked it up into the rubber syringe, hung my head over the sink, stuck it in and squeeeeezed….

At first nothing seemed to be happening. Water was going into my nostril, but I couldn’t feel it going beyond the front door before it ran back out into the sink. I nudged the rubber tip in a bit deeper, adjusted the angle and…my skull was filling with isotonic solution! Like some capsized vessel pounded by a tidal wave a powerful surge of warm water caromed off a sinus wall splashing the roof and the far wall before resting in a pool on the cavity floor and then slipping back out to sea, taking the green, infected muck with it. I could feel it working. After just one shot things started to unclog. I repeated the process three more times. Finally, I could breathe through my nose! I went to bed thrilled that I’d be able to sleep with my mouth closed. The effects didn’t last, however, and when I woke up the next morning I was gasping for air through a parched throat once more with sinuses swollen like genetically manipulated tomatoes. That evening before bed I gave my nose another good squirt-down, but the relief was temporary. That was it. I gave up. This was the first sinus infection to defeat my tried-and-true wait-and-see method. And not even the nasal lavage – the closest I’ve ever come to witchcraft – was able to exorcise my nose demons. If I hope to get another good night’s sleep, if I want to end the senseless slaughter of so many boxes of tissues, it’s time I lay down my skepticism and admit to someone I have a problem.

Tomorrow I’m seeing the doctor.

*And never will as they have since broken up due to an extra-relationship dalliance. Because they were our only childless friend-couple in the city, their separation separated us permanently from the outside world after 7 pm.

Why should we Celebrate Darwin Day, you ask?

Because there’s a little bit of evolution in all of us…

…well, most of us, anyway.

If evolution doesn’t already have an anthem, The Typing Chimps nominate this:

Sing along!

It was perhaps understandable that, when I clicked on the link to watch a live stream of the presidential inauguration last night, I thought I’d been redirected to the Superbowl halftime show preview. Only when the cameras broke their doting gaze from various celebrities, VIPs and other swollen opportunists to give us a brief glimpse of George W. Bush – looking ever the awkward pubescent at a grown-up party – did I realize I’d come to the right place. I planned to watch CNN International’s broadcast, but they opted to forgo the event, choosing instead to provide in-depth analysis of Michelle Obama’s clothing interspersed with infomercials for Dubai, Rolex and … CNN. I switched to euronews.

At some point among all the posing and praying that was going on, a young, handsome, well-spoken man interrupted the carnival to offer a few thoughtful words about sacrifice and personal responsibility. The revelers were momentarily still while we watched public role model P. Diddy puff with civic pride, and everycitizen Oprah was caught in a vulnerable moment of duly spontaneous tear-shedding. The partying then resumed, and just like that, the Oaf of Office had been supplanted by an oath of office. And while I couldn’t help but get caught up in the inspiriting words of Obama (made easier since I live in a country whose own politicians couldn’t arouse passion on a Hawaiian honeymoon), I was surprised to sense also a twinge of sadness at the departing of one of the most misguided, incompetent individuals ever to be given his own Boeing jet at taxpayer expense. There stood that affable ninny at the door of Marine One, turning one more time to face the public with his stock smirk and vacant sparkle – I half expected him to wave finger ‘Vs’ above his head before retreating from view forever.

He became president of the United States of Amnesia when I first arrived in Germany, and so I felt we were kindred spirits embarking upon similar struggles: I with adapting to a foreign culture and he with adapting to reality. Now, as I watched him board the helicopter, I felt as if I were losing a partner in my adventure; I remain here in Germany, still trying to understand some of the most basic aspects of its culture. But George has already returned to his faraway land, where simplicity reigns: black is black, white is white, and no one takes none too kindly to no grey. Where I’ve at least learned not to attempt striking up a conversation with someone in an elevator, George doesn’t seem to have learned anything. Here he is in his farewell speech, 15 January 2009:

On the absence of attacks in the US since 11 September 2001 thanks to his policies:

“There is legitimate debate about many of these decisions. But there can be little debate about the results.”

Spoken like a true silver-spoon brat used to getting his way. “Gosh, professor. I got an A on the exam. Does it really matter how?”

And here again in the same speech:

America did nothing to seek or deserve this conflict.

In all fairness, he did once admit to not reading newspapers. I just thought he was kidding. “Hey-hey, we’re just the most powerful country in the world minding our own business. What’s the problem?”

Well George, you’ve left me to figure out the world on my own. I should have been paying more attention while you were still here. You made everything seem so simple.

***Update: Here is a recording of his last weekly radio address.