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Homesick Blues - I’m sure you’ve heard the old adage that if you want God to laugh, tell him your plans. Of course, that need not apply solely (or soully) to a deity.

By the time you read this, our new US President is on the job and probably wondering why he went through all that trouble to get it. Let’s face it, the guy has his work cut out for him. Being President of the US is not some cushy walk in the park job like, say, civilian squadron communications officer. That’s my job, by the way, and no, I’m not giving the money back.

One of the thankless duties of a globe-trotting communications manager is to make sure his crew members make it safely from ship to airport and vice-versa. That’s as far as my responsibility goes. So, for instance, if the plane happens to take a header into the Hudson River, not my bad.

As I sat at the table in the crew mess tonight, lingering over the night’s portion of Soylent Green – or whatever – I found myself pondering the double-edged sword that is modern technology. It helps take one’s mind off the food.

Well, here we are on our second-to-last evening in Guam. There is only one reason why we come to Guam: to get things done. There is a US Naval base here, so this is the time that the Navy staff and its civilian minions – namely me – go ashore to take care of official stuff, like medical and dental appointments, supplies, technical issues, admin issues, and drinking at the Clipper Landing bar. Well, that last one isn’t official, but we do it anyway. I mean, as long as we’re here and all that.

This is the time of year where I watch Armed Forces Network (AFN) television just to see the holiday greeting announcements from the commanding officers. Typically, this consists of one of the Army, Navy, Air Force or Marine Chiefs of Staff and his respective wife seated in a cozy Christmas scene, complete with tree and presents, as the Chief passes on an intimate holiday greeting:

So, next time you find yourself getting a little riled at your local government (hello, Appomattox County Board of Supervisors!), remember that someone else usually has it worse than you. It’s good to be back in Saipan, despite its faults. Wonder if I could interest them in a waterline? Folks in Appomattox will find that last line hilarious. Trust me on that one.

I ended up dining on gyudon, a dish consisting of beef, carrots, noodles and rice, which didn’t taste bad at all, especially when mixed with the copious amounts of of chili powder I added to it. I ate as much as my admittedly still-budding dexterity with chopsticks would allow, then turned to the miso soup accompanying my entrée. It was so salty I can only assume that miso is a Japanese word meaning “Tokyo Bay in a Bowl.”

When we left off last, I was sitting in the Domestic Arrivals section of Fukuoka International Airport, waiting for the Navy shuttle bus which would take me to the base in Sasebo. You will be happy – well, hopefully – to know that I was able to catch said shuttle and was successfully delivered to my final destination.

Well, as promised, Devoted Readers (both of you) I am not writing this week’s entry from the comfort of my wood-stove-warmed garden room at the farm. Instead, I am in the Domestic Arrivals terminal at Fukuoka International Airport, Japan. It’s an airport, and it looks just like any airport in America except that the signs have strange symbols on them and most of the people have dark hair.

If you are a regular reader of this column, you have probably noticed that I travel a lot. But you may have also noticed that I never really actually SEE anything in my travels. That’s because in these magnificent modern times, generic airports and interstate highway systems, one can actually journey for hundreds, nay, thousands of miles…and never see a thing.

Election Season is finally over and I, for one, am looking forward to observing more civilized pursuits, such as rifle-toting sports folk vaporizing herds of deer into so much venison jerky. Observing from a safe distance, that is, particularly among those sports folk who choose to tote flasks along with their firepower. Better safe than mistaken for an eight-point buck and ending up dressed-out and hanging upside-down from an oak tree in the backyard of a near-sighted hunter with breath smelling of schnapps, that is my motto.

Sometimes I wonder why I bother calling this column “Homesick Blues” when it never seems as if I am around enough to have a home to be sick of…or is that ‘a home of which to be sick?’ Haven’t they repealed the Law of Prepositions? I thought I saw something about it on CNN.
Anyway, after [...]