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.

As poor a raconteur as I’ve been on this site, I feel obliged to provide those of you who still visit The Typing Chimps from time to time - and she knows who she is - with some hint of how I’ve been spending this winter. There is a short summary and a long summary of this. I’ll begin with the short:

Wiping Lloyd’s nose.

Fountain of youth

Still curious? Here’s the long version.

After finishing the six-week translation project in mid-November, I was happy to begin focusing on the teaching job I’d recently got at a local college. Working as a freelancer the last eight years had suited my disliking of nine-to-five jobs quite well. Ironically I often work longer hours for less pay, but the illusion of autonomy has always seemed a fair exchange. Even during Lloyd’s first year, when I was perhaps too eager to accept any paying reason to get me out of diaper duty, and our son’s highest demand was to have something colorful rattled above him, I never considered seeking - and here I have to suppress a shudder - permanent employment.

Amid all the baby-related advice I’ve received, I don’t recall anyone ever telling me that Lloyd would become a sentient being as early as his first birthday. Up until then I’d begun to feel my role as father largely consisted of operating the toys: shaking, sliding, swinging, pushing, pulling, spinning, tossing and rolling them. This sounds easy enough, but the challenge comes in finding the precise combination of these actions to elicit maximum smileage. And there are risks: one false move in the sequence can send an infant into a screaming-fit tailspin. But something happened around his 365th day that made him suddenly seem more … human - the way he looked at us, the way he acted, reacted and interacted. It’s difficult to explain, but these pictures might help illustrate:

Lloyd at 11 months 2 days: So lifelike.	Lloyd at just over 1 year - and fully sentient!

Now, playing with Lloyd means playing with Lloyd. When I show him things, I see he is interested. He’s developing distinct habits. And he tests us - oh, how he tests us! He is learning and changing faster than we can perceive - and I don’t want to miss too much.

When I started teaching English at the college this fall, I secretly hoped it would lead to full-time employment afterward, giving me the family time I’m looking for. I hate hope. Hope is the flirt at the bar that gets you to buy her another drink even when your brain is wildly waving the ‘No Chance’ flag. Hope is the good cop who’s just softening you up for the bad cop. If hope ever comes knocking at your door, turn off the porch light and draw the shades; maybe it’ll go away. Just before the Christmas break I got an e-mail from the head of the language department informing me that since the woman I wasn’t aware I had been replacing during her maternity leave was returning, they had no classes for me to teach in the spring. Thank you. You see? There’s Hope with me in the interrogation room, offering me cigarettes and coffee while his bruiser partner, Harsh Reality, is behind the two-way mirror, prepping the water board. So my search for stability and predictability continue.

I wasn’t going to let this misfortune sour my Christmas mood; that’s what in-laws are for. But I jest. Christmas with Katrin’s parents is the highlight of my year. Gabi, my mother-in-law, is the hardest working woman in Christmasland. Not only does she manage to prepare enough food to feed 9 people over 3 days, keep the house clean and still grace us with her presence, but you don’t even know she’s doing it. There are some people out there - me, for example - who perform a task and then make sure the world knows of their accomplishment:

Me: [Heavy sigh.]

Katrin: [Nothing].

Me: [Even heavier sigh.]

Katrin: [eyes rolling] Okay, what is it, Chris?

Me: Hm? Oh, nothing. Just…

Katrin: Yes?

Me: Well, it’s no big deal, really. But I just took out the trash, that’s all.

Katrin: Okay.

Me: Yeah, and it’s cold out. And raining, too.

Katrin: Yes, I can see that.

Me: And you didn’t even ask me to do it. And look! I’ve even put in a new garbage bag.

Katrin: Wow, all by yourself.

Me: [blushing] Aw, shucks. T’weren’t nothin’.

The big excitement this Christmas was Lloyd’s first haircut:

Hippie Lloyd	Bright-future Lloyd

Opa (grandpa) performed the ceremony in his basement workshop with clippers and a comb. To everyone’s surprise, he didn’t protest a bit - Lloyd, not Opa; nevertheless, he still made things difficult for Opa by trying to follow the movement of the comb. When the last locks had fallen to the floor, we were surprised by the change; he looked older, more mature. Then the air filled with a telltale stench: someone needed a new diaper - again, Lloyd.

After a break last year, I resumed my role as Santa:

Eat, Santa. Eat!

I want to like playing Santa in Germany, but I don’t. Aside from lacking the required, uh, corpulence, my cultural understanding of the traditional German Weihnachtsmann is sorely wanting. I don’t know the translation for ho-ho-ho, or the right way to ask a child if he or she’s been good. The Weihnachtsmann doesn’t have elves or reindeer to make small talk about, and he doesn’t come down chimneys (most people don’t even live in houses). I’m not even sure if there’s a Mrs. Weihnachtsmann or if Santa’s just living with his girlfriend, as is more common over here in ol’ librul Europe.

And, like too many other things in this country, Christmas in Germany is undergoing an antic transformation heavily influenced by American pop culture, misconceptions and stereotypes. Not even the Weihnachtsmann could escape this context-free ‘modernization’. Now he too appears more frequently as the fat, red-clad St. Nick (and if I hear one more native try to lecture me on Santa’s Coke origins, I’m gonna…) while the traditional German version disappears to Squaresville. Fortunately for me, Lloyd was the only toddler to witness my butchery of this holiday custom, and not even he looked too amused:

Just put the present down and back away slowly, weirdo.

To add to her already impressive résumé of atmosphere-enhancing skills, Gabi also entertained us with several Christmas carols on the piano:

I’m convinced she has a couple of body doubles cooking the goose, making coffee, telling stories, washing dishes, playing with grandkids and replacing candle stubs; otherwise, I’d have offered to help her out on occasion.

Next up was New Year’s Eve. With the exception of an unforgettable trip to Sweden for the new millennium, Katrin and I normally find ourselves in more subdued party environments on December 31^st, sometimes even intentionally. This year we rented an apartment with friends and friends of friends in nearby Bad Schandau on the Czech border.

Not bad, Schandau.

The final count was 12 adults and six children - a mere two-to-one ratio. We were hardly any match against our puerile adversaries, who had us fetching their toys, reading them books, singing them songs, dancing for them, spoon feeding them and wiping their asses at their beck and call. It’s not easy celebrating New Year’s Eve with children, but Katrin and I shared the burden:

He’s not heavy …	… He’s our son!

While Lloyd sat back and enjoyed the ride.

After a long-fought battle on the evening of December 31^st, the children retreated to their rooms and sought cover in their warm beds. Many of the parents were worn from the day’s skirmishes, barely able to stay up until midnight. Some didn’t make it at all. But Katrin, I and a few other hearty souls danced into the New Year, though things looked dubious at first; our self-appointed DJ never developed his musical taste past his second year in college and so subjected us to one &%$!@*# reggae tune after another. If there’s one thing I hate more than hope, it’s reggae; both crush your spirit with their relentless monotony until you either submit and stop thinking or resist and dig up that mix CD you stuffed in the diaper bag at the last minute.

Saved.

I hope wish you all a prosperous, peaceful, reggae-free New Year.