The Misadventures of Ox

Three-Cheese French Onion Soup

2011-03-11T16:13:00.006-05:00

Ever since I went on my first low-carb diet five years ago, onion soup has been a repeat performer on my list of all time favorite liquid-based foods. (And, yes, I really do have such a list. No, you may not see it.) When I lived in Germany, I couldn't seem to find it anywhere. Perhaps that has something to do with its French origin, or maybe the Germans just can't get behind a good oniony soup covered in melted cheese...I'm voting for the former. I did manage to finally find it in the Netherlands, where it's known as uiensoep (roughly pronounced oo-een-zoop), but I digress. The whole point of this story is that I had to learn to make it myself. This is the result of years and years of tweaking what started out as a pretty good recipe. One I have to keep pulling out because no one in this blasted country seems to know how to make it. Enjoy.

Three-Cheese French Onion Soup

Serves: 4-6, depending on portion sizes

Ingredients:

1/2 stick unsalted butter
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 garlic cloves, smashed
3 large onions, or 5 medium ones, halved and sliced
1/2 cup dry white wine (like a pinot grigio)
2 tablespoons fresh thyme
2 small bay leaves, or 1 large one
32 ounces beef stock
5-6 dashes Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon Nature's Seasoning (optional)
Salt and Pepper to taste

French bread, sliced into half-inch pieces on the bias, and baked at 300 degrees Fahrenheit for 20 minutes until dry and hard. Or just use old bread.
Gruyere, Provolone and Parmesan Cheese

Directions:

Melt the butter and olive oil together in a medium to large saucepan over medium heat. Add onions and garlic, salt liberally, and allow to soften 5-10 minutes.

Turn the heat up to high for a few minutes and then add the wine, thyme (either on the stems or stripped off) and the bay leave(s). Allow to boil while stirring to get any crusty bits off the bottom of the pan.

Add beef stock, Worcestershire and Nature's Seasoning and bring to a boil and then turn down to a simmer and cook for 20 minutes.

Note: If you can't find Natures seasoning, just add in a little extra garlic powder, onion powder, a pinch of sugar and more pepper.

Taste for seasoning and add more salt and pepper if desired.

Ladle soup into oven-proof ramekins, lay one or two pieces of bread on top and then cover with the three cheeses. Broil in a hot oven or under a salamander until cheese is brown and bubbly.

Update

2011-03-09T15:31:00.003-05:00

So it looks like I haven't updated this thing in over three years. Well, I've got good news for those of you who have faithfully checked this blog on a daily/weekly/monthly basis: I'm back. At least for now.

The whole point of this blog was to share my experiences moving to Europe and trying to find a job. Unfortunately, once I found that job, I sort of no longer had time to write anything. Well I quit my job, moved into one of my mother's two houses (more on that later) and really have nothing to do with my day except search the county for decent produce.

This brings me to my new ambition in life, which is to bring some delicious food to the greater metro area that is Zanesville, Ohio. I have literally been to every single restaurant in this excuse for a city and I'm here to tell you that none of them are worth the money they pay their sad employees. So, instead of merely complaining about the lack of quality food, I'm going to do what I do best: cook. And I'll be posting random recipes here as well. Stay tuned.

Royalty

2008-01-18T02:55:00.000-05:00

So, low and behold, it turns out that I'm royalty. According to some British transplant to Miami that found me on Facebook, our venerable name comes from one Prince Madog of Wales. Over the years the dear prince's name has been bastardized into several forms, including Mattox, Maddox, Maddock, Maddick, Mattick and Mattux. We're also a very culturally diverse people, proud to include among our ranks those of African, Asian and Latino decent.

Finally, an excuse to be the pompous bastard that I am.

So my first order of business is as follows:

By royal decree, I, HRH Prince Mark Mattox of Wales, do hereby order that all correspondence to me be addressed to HRH Prince Mark Mattox of Wales. Or, if you're lazy, just to HRH Prince Mark. A select few will be allowed to simply use HRH. You will be receiving applications via Royal Post to apply to do so.

Furthermore, there will be no collecting of taxes...at the moment. Though any "donations" to the Royal House of Mattox would not be turned away.

That is all.

News Exam

2007-07-26T16:56:00.000-04:00

I was recently asked to take an exam in order to earn a position on the news team which gives hourly live updates. Out of sheer boredom I sent 10 of the 25 questions to Ms. Nicki Hulec to give her something to do when she should have been working. Those 10 questions along with her answers are posted below. Some answers are actual attempts, while other's were just damn entertaining.

1. What is the job of Jose Manuel Barrosso?

Jose Manuel Barrosso is the keeper of the book of secrets.

2. How many countries are in the United Nations? How many in the Security Council? How many permanent? What are their powers?

There are 28 countries in the United Nations, 15 in the Security Council, all are permanent, and their powers are that of levitation, x-ray vision, super strength, and fist of Buddha

3. Who are the members of the G8?

The G8 is a notorious street gang that started in the Bowery district in NYC. Their name is derived from the original crew whose names were George, Gavin, Gerald, Gary, Gus, Gargimel, Gibson, and Goliath.

4. Elections are held every __4__ years for the _______Bundestag____ (Bundestag or Bundesrat) and there are currently 145_____ seats there. (145, 234, or 614)

5. Robert Mugabe is the president of what country.

South Africa

6. China's Hu Jintao and Japan's Shinzo Abe had a meeting. What are the surnames of the two men?

Smith

7. What team won the Bundesliga last season?

FC Munchen

8. What is the Kosovo?

A dance similar to the Macarena in style, but is intended to bring about the end of the world. It’s globally banned for said reason.

9. Where are Janjaweed militias located?

Sierra Leon

10. Who is the title and name of the head of the United Nations?

This one I knew, but have forgotten.

Now for all of you super geeks, like Paige (see that Paige, I put you in here) who want to know the real answers, here they are:

1. What is the job of Jose Manuel Barrosso?

Jose Manuel Barrosso is the President of the European Council.

2. How many countries are in the United Nations? How many in the Security Council? How many permanent? What are their powers?

There are 192 countries in the United Nations, 15 in the Security Council, 5 are permanent, and the 5 permanent members have veto power over any SC resolution.

3. Who are the members of the G8?

The United States, Great Britain, Germany, France, the Russian Federation, Italy, Canada, and Japan.

4. Elections are held every __4__ years for the _______Bundestag____ (Bundestag or Bundesrat) and there are currently ___614__ seats there. (145, 234, or 614)

5. Robert Mugabe is the president of what country.

Zimbabwe

6. China's Hu Jintao and Japan's Shinzo Abe had a meeting. What are the surnames of the two men?

Hu and Abe

7. What team won the Bundesliga last season?

VfB Stuttgart

8. What is the Kosovo?

The Kosovo is a province of Serbia which has declared itself as an independent republic. It has an Albanian majority.

9. Where are Janjaweed militias located?

Sudan

10. Who is the title and name of the head of the United Nations?

Secretary General, Ban Ki-Moon

Ok, so how many did you get right? If you have come up with more entertaining answers than Nicki, which is, let's face it, highly unlikely, kindly email them to me at themadox31@hotmail.com.

What's in a name?

2007-04-28T05:40:00.001-04:00

I've had a lot of trouble with my name throughout my life. Born as the first son to middle class Americans it was only natural that they would want to pass on my father's nomen to me. However, they seemed to have messed up somewhere. For instead of given my my father's full name, which is Mark Dennis Mattox, they decided to mix it up a bit by giving me a different middle name. This is all well and good, but then they took it a step further and decided that not only would I get a different middle name than my father, they would use it to refer to me for the rest of my life.

This worked out okay for me up until about the age of 14, when I felt I should rebel. Every year up to that point was the same. The first day of school would come and the teacher would read out our names, saying, "Now if any of you prefer to use a middle name or a shortened version just make sure and tell me." And every year they would get halfway through the class and say, "Mark Mattox?" And I would reply, "I go by Ryan." I just had to be different. There were only ever 2 or 3 other kids who would want to be called something else, and even then it was usually just a Jake instead of Jacob, or Tom instead of Thomas. No one went by their middle name.

So when 6th grade rolled around I decided to challenge the status quo. Mr. Geyer went through the names, marking down abbreviations. When he got to me I simply said, "Here". There was an audible gasp in the room. Everyone there except for poor, unknowing Mr. Geyer, had always known me as Ryan. My decision to claim my birth name flew in the face of everything they had ever known. Throughout the day I was asked countless times why I did it. I never really had a good answer. I'm not sure that I have one now.

A year later, the first day of 7th grade, there was a palpable tension in the room when Mrs. Hartmeyer came to my name. She had always known me as Ryan, having taught 3rd grade at the the first elementary I attended before moving to the middle of nowhere. So instead of saying my name and looking around the room she simply said, "Mark, oh wait, no, you're Ryan, and I see that you're here." And just like that I was back to being Ryan, and I stayed Ryan until I graduated from High School.

It was as Ryan that I went off to college, but that soon changed. I tried to maintain my identity, but when the class size grows from 30 to 150 it becomes a little difficult to convince people that you're name isn't the one they have on their roster. It would have been simpler if I had been named Marcus and wanted to be called Mark. That they would have understood, but to be named Mark and want to be called Ryan was just ludicrous. So I gave up. I became a Mark and embraced it.

Most of my friends now know me as Mark. My boyfriend has never called my anything other than Mark. Though there is an interesting phenomenon among both my friends and relatives. When my relatives speak to my friends they refer to me as Mark, but when my friends speak to my relatives they refer to me as Ryan. It's almost as if everyone sub-consciously goes out of their way to make those around them more comfortable.

After moving to Germany my name didn't change, but the way it is pronounced did. I was no longer Mark Mattox, pronounced Maddox, no I had become Mahrk Mat-tox. And not just Mahrk Mat-tox, but Herr Mahrk Mat-tox. It got to the point that when I would have to say my name to a German I would just give in and pronounce it like they do, if only to facilitate spelling. My German boyfriend has managed to get it right, so maybe there's hope for the rest of the country.

Since becoming a journalist my name has changed even more. When the hosts read my name on the air it always ends up coming out as Mark Mat-tox. So I changed the way it is spelled in the leads that they read. When they, as well as other people, don't have my name right in front of them, they often call me Matt or Mike. Matt I can understand because of my last name, but Mike? Really? Recently I wrote a story about the scandal at Siemens. A Dutch woman, who speaks English like an odd mix between a Brit, an Aussie, and a New York socialite said that following sentence: "The scandal comes on the heels of the departure of CEO Klaus Kleinfeld. Max Mattox has the details."

Max?

Max?

My name was right in front of her face! This is just getting out of control.

The Language of Birds

2006-11-17T15:00:00.000-05:00

As I was standing on my balcony chain smoking clove cigarettes and yelling at the pigeons a thought came to me. When cartoons and movies are aired, it is generally assumed that any and all animals can automatically speak the language of whatever country it happens to be shown in. In addition to that, it is generally acknowledged that our pets and farm animals at least understand, if not speak, the same language we do. Living proof of this can be found in a dog who belongs to my boyfriend's aunt. This dog is rather friendly, sometimes too friendly, and no matter how many times I tell it to go lie down and stop bothering me in English it won't listen, but the minute I say the same thing in German, off it goes to the corner to do as I asked. I suppose this isn't especially extraordinary, but it got me thinking about birds, specifically migratory ones. The arctic tern migrates every year 12,000 miles from its breeding grounds along the Arctic circle to its wintering grounds on the edge of the continent of Antarctica. The tern is a circumpolar species, meaning that it lives along every edge of both the Arctic and Antarctic circles.

The Arctic Tern (well actually 2 Arctic Terns)

So what language do they speak? Do they learn every language of every country the live and/or stop in? If this is the case, they have to learn not only English and Spanish, but Russian, Swedish, Finnish, Norwegian, French, German, Japanese, Chinese and a plethora of African and Inuit dialects. Or are they, as I assume, more like rude American tourists spreading across the globe with snot-nosed children and luggage packed to the breaking point in tow, demanding that every man, woman, child, and arctic tern they meet accommodate their ignorance.

These are the things I think about because I have no job and, therefore, more time than sense.

Damn Germans

2006-09-20T14:04:00.000-04:00

All I wanted was a new cell phone. This seems like a simple enough request, but as it is with most things in Germany, wanting and getting are two totally different things.

I woke early on Wednesday morning. And of course by early I mean 9:30, which, technically for me anyway, is early. I went online one last time to look at the different phones and plans at the three or four main German cell phone companies, just to make sure that there wasn't something that I had missed in my previous 1400 hours of looking. After showering and dressing myself in a sassy ensemble of a hellblau polo, jeans and some black pumas, I was on my way. My first stop was the O2 cell phone store.

Before we go any further, I think I should explain a few things about the German cellular phone system. First of all, Germans are more interested in having a phone that does anything but make phone calls. Germans, as a general rule, don't make many actual phone calls. They tend to prefer the text message, and therefore look for a phone with the easiest keys to press in the most efficient way. It isn't odd to see at least 40 or 50 Germans on any given day walking around with their heads down, frantically typing some message to be sent off into the wide world of cellular space. Second, unlike America, where you can buy a plan with 400-500 minutes for roughly a fair price, in Germany such a plan would cost you up to and including 80 euros. A price I am unwilling to pay, especially considering you only look cool if you are sending a text message.

With that knowledge off I went into the store. I informed the greasy looking Turkish fellow (I know, I'm racist, but he deserves it...you'll soon see why) that I want to order an O2 phone over the internet (thereby securing 2400 free text messages...I'm a thinker) and I have come in to seek his advice on which phone I would like. So, instead of getting off his lazy ass to show me the finer points of each phone, he simply points to where they are and tells me to go have a look. (See, told you he deserved the racist epitaph.) I then ask him if I can get a cell phone with a credit card, or if I have to have a German bank account. This seems to annoy him and he answers, in a not very friendly tone I might add, that credit cards cannot be used. This in a country where it's perfectly normal to buy a lottery ticket with a credit card.

So, dejected and phoneless, I make my way to the bank in order to get myself a bank account, eventually a cell phone. After walking about 14 km, and waiting in a line for about 20 mins, I am informed by the cute guy behind the counter (who I'm pretty sure was flirting with me) tells me that I can't have a German bank account until I have a residence permit. I then tell him that I can't get a residence permit without a job, and when I get a job, they're going to ask for my bank account number, since the only way you can get paid in this country is by direct deposit. He shrugs, gives me an application for my perusal, and sent me on my way.

So here I sit, phoneless, bank accountless, and jobless. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

And the beat goes on...

2006-09-07T20:51:00.000-04:00

So where was I? Ah yes, being offered a "Diet". Well it goes without saying that I made it safely to Washington, D.C., and for all you not so bright lightbulbs out there, it goes without saying that I made it to Germany as well. Though I suppose that I could be writing this from Ohio, or even from beyond the grave. Ooooooo...spooky. But I digress.

What happened next is going to be one of those moments that I look back on and think, "Yeah, I probably deserved that." After walking through Dulles International, a journey that I'm sure was long enough to force me to have crossed at least two time zones, I arrived at my gate. As I sat gabbing on my phone, I glanced around to take in my potential seat partner. There was the suspicious looking Arab family speaking in some language unknown to me, most likely planning my imminent death. There was the hot German boy sitting with his head cradled in his hands looking bored or maybe even stoned. There was the nervous looking woman who kept glancing around at anything that moved. And there was the requisite fatty. Now I know I'm not the slimmest person in the terminal, but at least I'm small enough to keep my entire body firmly placed within the confines of my seat.

This is where karma is about to bite me in the ass. While waiting for the plane to board I manage to get in conversations with at least a dozen people, if not more, and with each person I give them the rundown of fellow passengers. I was racist to the Arabs, lustful to the German, snotty to the paranoid lady and fattest to the fatty. Finally the plane begins to board and I think to myself, "Gee, maybe I should try to get an exit row." So off I go as everyone else crams in line to get on the plane. Right as I'm about to enter the line for the desk some Croatian (I learned this later) asshole runs in front of me and steps up to speak to the only agent at the desk. It seems he's having some trouble with his new wife and baby. I probably wouldn't have been so bitter about it, but he was hot. To hot to be straight, and that always annoys me. Plus he seemed to be taking an obscene amount of time. After what seemed like an eternity waiting there for straight-o to finish up and return to his wife, he finally does and as I'm about to approach the agent and ask for an exit row the bitch ass agent at the gate letting everyone one yells over to ask if there are any exit rows left. Bitch ass was informed that 27B fit that description and left me alone to ask my fateful question.

I really think as this point everyone knows what is going to happen here. I've set it up pretty good, and any fool with half a brain cell can figure out that I've just lost my exit row to bitch ass and the greedy seat stealer. Karma bites me in the ass for the first time. So after being informed by the agent, who by this time is a bitter shell of a human, that all the exit rows are taken and that there will be an ice cube's chance in hell of me having any space whatsoever I get on the plane.

Walking down the aisle I count ahead to see who I will be sitting by. My eyes scan past the paranoid woman and come to rest on the hot German...who is sitting directly behind me. Sitting in the seat which I have painstakingly reserved is the amazing 500 pound woman. All right, so maybe she wasn't really 500 pounds, but she was big enough to take up all of her seat and half of mine. Why do these people fly? One would think that the embarrassment of having to ask for a seatbelt extender or worse, having to pay for two seats would be enough to keep one's fat ass on the ground. This woman apparently felt no apprehension. Not only had she been able to ask for the extender with no shame, but she did not even give me a glance or a weak smile apologizing for her girth.

I could have complained. I could have been a gay bitch and raised holy hell until they put me in business class, but alas that was not how my momma taught me to act. Instead I put on a brave face, mentioned how it was going to be a rough ride seeing as how we both were "pretty big girls" and squeezed my ass in the half seat allotted to me. Thank the dear Lord above I just lost 20 pounds because I don't think any more of me would have fit. I chatted with her nicely until the first flight attendant went by. I asked politely if there might be another seat anywhere but she informed me, (a little rudely I might add) that the plane was overbooked, which is a whole other blog entry.

So I settled in and tried to make the most of it. We were informed by the captain that if we tuned our armrest to channel 9 we would be able to hear him conversing with air traffic control. Something I'm sure Miss Kuns will understand got my all hot and bothered. Of course I couldn't listen to the captain because 500 pounds of woman decided at that moment to ask me all about my life. And of course, instead of telling her to shut the hell up, I listened politely, nodding and answering her questions.

Taxing and takeoff were, thankfully, short, and soon we were ascending to 36,000 feet. This is where Karma bites me in the ass for the third time. While I do have my own very, and I do mean very, undersized TV screen, it is not like the screens on US Air and Northwest. On those two fine airlines one can pick from a wide selection of movies; stopping, starting, rewinding and pausing at one's leisure. United, however, feels that the best approach to movie watching is to play five or six movies, each on a different channel. The problem with this, outside that fact that my list of choices went from thirty to five, was that if you didn't catch the movie right at the beginning, or needed to get up to pee and missed a vital part, you were shit out o'luck until it played through again.

After my movie experience was soured, I wasn't holding out much hope for dinner. This, however, was where my luck began to change. Dinner was beef or pasta; I picked beef...low carb, you know. I also decided that though I would have to pay for it, wine was in order, so I ordered a glass of red. The flight attendant smiled, gave me my dinner and wine and went on her way. The beef was a little tough, and the potatoes were a little mushy, but the brownie was chewy and the salad was crisp. Shortly after finishing my dinner and chugging that last of my wine, I was tapped on the shoulder and informed by my new savior that she was going to try and find me another seat. I swear I saw heaven itself open up and God smiled down upon me. Soon another attendant, a woman who would become my second savior, told me that my new seat was 17F. I hadn't told 500 this info yet because I didn't want to jinx it, but at this point I let her know that soon we would both be having more room.

I looked towards the front of the plane and tried to figure out where row 17 was. I knew it was too much to hope for Business Class, but I hope I did just the same. I had to wait until the attendants were finished clearing away the dinner trays before I could be free from my prison. I stood and walked towards my new seat, scanning the row tags as I went. Now while my seat was not in Business Class, it was in Economy Plus in a front row. I looked over to see who my new traveling companions were to be and was greeted by the smiling Arab family. Great, I thought, now the bomb will sure and get me. Well at least I wasn't going to limp away from it, hideously deformed.

I stowed my things in my new overhead compartment and took my seat, stretching my legs and relishing my new-found space. I had just opened up the paper to the sodoku puzzle when savior #1 arrives with another glass of wine, which she gives to me with a wink. Things are looking up. Fast forward two hours and you find me watching the Family stone trying to cover myself with my sweatshirt because the Arab took my blanket and pillow for his baby. No I know that the baby probably needed it more than I did, I mean it isn't like it was some amazing bedding set, and to his credit every time my jacket got in his way and I pulled it back the Arab told me to not worry about it.

At this point I have determined that the only way sleep is going to come is with alcohol. So I get up, swing past 500 to pick up my pillow, which she was rudely using. And headed towards the rear to get liquored up. Upon my arrival I am greeted by my two saviors who are sitting in the aft galley chatting away. I ask for an amaretto on the rocks, and as I reach for my wallet they inform me there will be no charge. They want to make up for my bad luck. As savior #2 put it in her charming Australian accent, "It isn't you're fault you got that seat. It isn't like you gained all that weight. That and we really want to get you drunk." I thanked her and she added, "No worries." Which is possibly the cutest thing that Australians say, that and Billabong.

unfortunately the alcohol didn't help, and the lack of sleep was making my light headed. So I went to the bathroom to vomit, though all I really managed to do was sit on the toilet for 20 minutes. It could have been longer though, because when I came out the sun was shining and breakfast was about to be served. Over my morning meal of fruit, croissant and loads of coffee I learned that my Arab terrorist was in fact a Toyota salesman from Virginia who had fled Afghanistan in the 1980s and was returning for the first time in 20 years to see his homeland. I also discovered that they were still broadcasting air traffic control and that my new Afghan friend was just as interested in it as I.

In the end I suppose it wasn't such a bad flight, though never again will I fly so late. Alex can just get his ass out of bed at 5 am. My luggage arrived, nothing was broken, and I'm pretty sure the German government doesn't know I'm here, since my passport was neither scanned into Interpol or stamped at customs. I think that makes me an illegal alien. Oh well.

So that's it. It took me two days to write, but I did it. Don't expect another update for a while...I'm just too lazy.

The Flight

2006-09-06T18:40:00.000-04:00

I suppose in hindsight it was actually all my fault. I mean I was cocky enough to believe that just by booking myself on a 777 that I would be sure to have a new and exciting experience. And while it isn't wrong to say that it was an experience, I'm not sure that "new" or "exciting" adequately describes my flight to Germany.

It all started on a dreary September day back in the year of our Lord 2006. After spending most of the day frantically packing and running around like a sweaty fool, crying with everyone like a dramatic fool and almost dropping my computer while casually walking through the terminal gabbing on the phone to my sister like a plain fool, I managed to get on the plane.

My first indication that this was not going to be a routine trip really should have been the fact that the plane that was to take me to Washington, D.C. had some "mechanical difficulty". I use quotes because it seems that every time a plane is delayed, that is that sentence that generally gets thrown at you. Usually some perky asshole gets on that damn public address system to say, "Attention in the boarding area. I regret to inform you that United flight 7804 with service to Washington, D.C. has been delayed due to mechanical difficulty. The service team has already been called and I have been assured that we will be able to begin boarding the aircraft shortly."

I have a few problems with this statement besides the obvious fact that it tells me that I'm going to be late. First, "mechanical difficulty" is just airline talk for "broken plane". This is not a thought that inspires much confidence. And while "mechanical difficulty" means the same thing as "broken plane", I'm sure that they did a test some where on some group of Midwestern idiots wandering through the mall to determine which phrase to use. The second problem I have with the above statement is the word "service". Why do they have to say "service to Washington, D.C."? Isn't it enough to simply say "flying to" or "traveling to"? Saying that the flight is "servicing" Washington, D.C. makes it sound like a hooker giving someone a blow job, and I don't know about you, but I don't like the idea of flying around on the inside of a whore. Too many STDs in there.

Well I guess I shouldn't complain too much because after only a few minutes the Puta Plane was ready to "service" Washington, and we were able to board with no further problems. This brings me to the real experience part of my flight. The plane I took to D.C. was a small 25-seat Embreaer 145 jet. Not the biggest aircraft in the world, but it has two jet engines and will do in a pinch. My flight attendant, who's name I'm pretty sure was Michael, though it could have been Jason, or Ethel, was the biggest flamer of a gay flight attendant that this homo has ever had the pleasure of witnessing. This dude was gay, and I mean gay. Spiked hair, Elton John-esque ring, and tiny, tiny man-purse. I was seated in seat 3A. Plenty close to the front of the aircraft where the only two doors were located. Doors I was already planning on getting to in the event of a "water landing", even if that meant pushing elderly and crippled people down on my way. In fact, if the opportunity to push down the elderly and crippled arose, then all the better.

Well, though my seat was adequate, my flying homo decided that he wanted to take pity on me and put me in seat 1A, which on a plane of this size is basically the closest thing anyone is getting to first class. Through the whole flight, and I mean the whole flight: takeoff, assent, cruising, descent and landing he talked to me. He talked about being a flight attendant and how his boyfriend wants to move to either Belize or Prague (two totally different places I know, but the gays are like that). He talked about crazy old ladies and their little dogs, each one he named Fifi.(The dogs, not the old ladies.) He talked about my ring and how he needed to find a tiny, tiny black man-purse and asked if I knew where he could do so in Columbus. In fact, the only time he stopped talking was to go offer everyone some water. He, of course, offered to "sneak me" and "Diet". Though I declined because I didn't want the other passengers to get jealous and start a riot, and because he offered me a "Diet" instead of a "Soda", which I feel meant he thought I was obese. Then again it could have just been gay sensibility, because had I really been offered a choice, I would have picked "Diet".

Well, and this is mostly for Paige, that is all I have the time or patience to write at the moment. I'm a European now and I have shopping to do. This is the Ox, signing off. Check back soon, I'm 6 hours ahead and you never know when I'll get the urge to write.

My granny, the homophobe

2006-08-22T22:46:00.000-04:00

So I was thinking about what I should title this blog and it occurred to me that the best way to go about it is to just state the truth. Get it out there and show everyone what it’s all about. I’ve always said that. Or maybe I’ve always said, “Let it all hang out and see who comes along and how much they’ll pay you.” Yeah, that sounds more like me.

Right, so my grandmother is a homophobe. That’s right, you heard it hear first. (Unless of course you’ve talked to me, in that case you probably heard it over the phone first.) The woman I have worshiped and adored my entire life has turned her back on me. Though because she tends to be very sneaky, it’s very hard to tell that she actually finds the life I lead and the man I love to be an abomination to her Christian sensibility. For example, when I went over to her house today she gave me a hug and chatted politely, but I’m sure that when I left she cursed my very name and burned a gay flag in effigy. That’s just what homophobic grandmothers do.

“But Mark,” you might be saying, “hasn’t your grandmother always been against the gays?” And my response would of course have to be a resounding “Yes!!!” But that does not give her the right to hate on me. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I think we need to go back. It all started on the eve of the Battle at Little Bighorn…wait, that may have been too far back. Ok, I’ve got it. It all started Saturday. My sister, Megann, (you see how I did that Paige…made sure you knew which sister right off the bat.) took me out to dinner at the Red Lobster. Mostly because it’s the only place the five of us can ever agree on and how can you go wrong dining at a place that features a Lottacolada on the menu? So I’m halfway through my 2nd Grey Goose Martini (dry, extra olives) when she decides to tell me that my grandmother has decided that she doesn’t feel comfortable having Alex coming home with me for Christmas because my “Grandfather doesn’t need that stress.”

Ok, let’s address the obvious problems with this situation one at a time. To start with I’d like to say that I was a little tipsy, and not just because I’m a lightweight…which I am. No, it had more to do with the fact that I am trying to shrink my ass down to a size 6 by October and have devoted myself to the Low Carb Lifestyle. This meant that I wasn’t really eating all that much and instead had turned to liquor to fill the void a 6:00 in the evening. All of this led to me almost starting to make a scene which I think really entertained some little girl who was very rudely eating a giant piece of chocolate cake in front of me (oh you just wait little girl, your day will come!!)

So the second problem is that my grandmother thinks she can hide behind my grandfather and how sick he is. I know he’s sick and since I haven’t ever brought up the fact that I’m a flaming queer in front of either of them I think she can safely assume that I wouldn’t ruin her perfect holiday (which by the way is rarely ever perfect…not even close) by being all gay with Alex. I suppose she thinks that I’m going to waltz (and I do mean waltz, people…when gays are involved real life takes on a Broadway musical quality) into her living room with my flamingly gay boyfriend in tow, sit on my grandfather’s lap and make out. Doesn’t she know that homos don’t do that kind of thing until after they’ve had their commitment ceremony on Maui?

I adore her. I always have and I always will. This is what makes all of this so very difficult. I just wish for once she would stop being such a perfect WASPish prude and look me in the eye and tell me what she thinks. At least that way I can explain to her that though I love Alex very much, given the opportunity to pick whether I were gay or straight I would most probably pick straight. If only to make her life that much less difficult. And if that isn’t love and devotion then I’ve obviously gotten the whole thing wrong.

So in the end I don’t really know why I’ve just written all of this. Perhaps I think that someday in the not so distant future she will come across it and pick up the phone. More likely she will never see it and my life will go on just as it always has; only I’ll be leading it quietly 5,000 miles away. I won’t bother her with stories of how Alex and I spent a weekend in Florence or how he surprised for my birthday. I will never be asked what she should get him for Christmas or how he’s doing at his job. I will miss out on so many things, but sadly, I’m afraid, she will miss out on so much more.

Oh my crap...

2006-08-21T23:35:00.000-04:00

...I haven’t posted a blog on here in decades!!! That's just craaazy. It's like I'm turning into Avi Guter or something. Right, well much to what I'm sure will be overrated excitement from Paige, I am now posting something. I'd like to start by explaining the long absence. The first and most obvious reason for the delay has a great deal to do with quantum physics and a slight tear in the space-time continuum thingy. Much too involved to get into here. The second reason for my spaetness is that I am, in fact, rather lazy, and if you don't know that by know then you shouldn't be reading this blog. Mostly because you will get addicted to my wit and dry humor only to find out that my posts are few and far between. Sad for you.

Right, so to update the world...and of course by world I mean Paige since she is the only person on earth who even reads this thing...I will now list the amusing and/or just normal things that have happened to me in recent times. First, I think we all now know and have come to accept that I am moving to Deutschland in exactly two weeks from today. Very frightening, but not for the reasons one might think. Sure, Deutschland is a country 5,000 miles away from my tiny (and rather terrorist-free I might add) hamlet, and sure, there may have been a recent attempt by certain unnamed Lebanese students to put bombs on trains that I will regularly use in my daily life. (Gasp...bombs you say? I have not heard of this drama!!! Well fear not my friend, just visit www.dw-world.de to get all the latest German news...and it's in English to boot!) But I am not afraid of this dear reader, oh no, and if you have ever met my mother then you will know why. Plus, I'm not really all that bothered by moving to a place where most likely no will understand what the crap is going through m crazy head or what I'm even trying to say. That's just how tough, or stupid, I am.

So to recap: moving to Deutschland, not afraid. Oh, I suppose that I should explain why I think moving to Germany is very frightening. It's all in the mental preparation, or the lack thereof. I'm really finding it difficult to wrap my mind around saying goodbye. I mean it isn't as if I'm leaving forever, but people drift apart, especially when 5,000 miles and six time zones separates them. It will take some getting used to. So, to keep my mind off of the hard part I am starting to pack my clothes...two weeks early. Now I'm sure to some people packing clothes two weeks in advance of moving to a foreign country may seem rather practical, but I am not most people. I seem to have this nasty desire to put clothing that I rather enjoy wearing in my suitcases because I want to make sure that I take them, only to pull them out, wear them, and then send them to the basement to be washed. I'm certain that I've packed some of my shirts at least 8,234,786 times.

This brings me to my most recent purchase...a new suitcase!!! How very travelesque of me, I know. The thing was 80% off and I just couldn't say no. Though I did say maybe to the few I didn't end up picking and thanked them for applying for the position. It's important to be polite to suitcases that you don't end up picking. You never know when you might need them in the future. Wouldn't it be tragic if you decided to mock a suitcase that you weren't going to purchase only to decide the next day that you did in fact need it as well? I'm certain that that suitcase would sabotage your entire trip. Mark my words, it won't be pretty.

Sophisticated Woman

2006-06-30T09:57:00.000-04:00

You Belong in London

A little old fashioned, and a little modern.
A little traditional, and a little bit punk rock.
A unique woman like you needs a city that offers everything.
No wonder you and London will get along so well.

What City Do You Belong In?

I think this is potentially bogus. I answered the questions 14 different ways and it still says that I belong in London. So either it's really ghetto or I really do belong in London. Good thing I'm moving to Bonn, Germany.

Astronomy Class

2006-05-13T15:49:00.000-04:00

The following is an actual conversation that took place during my sophomore year in college. I would like to preface the following by saying that when it was originally written I had sadly gone back into the closet, forsaking the first love of my life (Sorry Shahar) and was apparently in love with Michelle. Too bad she didn't fall in love with me until we lived together, by which time I was a flaming 'mo again.

Mark: Isn't this pen awesome? I feel like a doctor.

Paige: I think your stolen pen is lovely but once the authorities find out you stole it, I don't think they will let you become a doctor.

M: I don't think that stealing a pen is a punishable crime. If it were people would be arrested in office buildings everyday. I tried to steal a pen from the post office - because that would be a Federal crime and I could spend the rest of my days in cushy Federal prison - but they were all chained down. Is cushy even a word? I'm sure it is - my Dr. pen can't spell words that never were thunk up.

P: If you aren't careful, I am going to shove that Dr. Pen through your temple and put you out of your misery.

M: You have no idea how happy that would make me. 30 mins and I'm about to crack! Ich kaufe dir ein Food Saver, aber kannst du es nicht haben!*

P: If I knew how to say BITCH in German I would, but since I don't I'll just say it in English. BITCH!! I can't believe I am suffering through this class and you are bragging about how you have a Food Saver and I don't.

M: You know I see the words but I just don't comprehend them. I don't speak violence! BITCH!!
P: So why did Shorty do your dishes? What else did you do this weekend? I got to shop all day Sunday and the shitty thing was that I wasn't shopping for me!

M: PAIGE! PAIGE! PAIGE! It's all about PAIGE, isn't it?!?!? I did nothing this weekend. I worked and I watched TV. Shorty did my dishes because I cooked dinner for the 3 Amigos because Michelle was crying about her parents hating her. So much for Mr. Nice Guy. So now I'm being an ass. I'm getting nowhere - I'm totally taking a vow of celibacy (I obviously meant chastity) - that shouldn't be too hard to keep.

P: Are Michelle's parents still making her move back home? That was nice of you to make them dinner...I don't think being an ass is a very good thing to do. Now I have decided that you need therapy to deal with the struggle of being named Fig Newton. I always knew that "My real name is Ryan" stuff was BULLSHIT!

M: SWEET MUTTER VON GOTT! Listen here cracker, I will be an ass if I want to and you will just have to deal with it. Nice guys suck! My real name on my British birth certificate, signed by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of you can kiss my ass is Mark Ryan. It's not A. Cookie it's A. Fig Newton VII! So there!

P: How are you going to be an ass? Are you going to call her mean names and throw things at her? Not very nice! It will come back to haunt you. I think I know how his (insert mental arrow pointing at really old, crazy astronomy professor) will be caused. He will be blinded by the light from the overhead projector and go into convulsions and end up having a stroke!

M: I'll give you a stroke! I can be an ass without being verbally abusive. I'm a psych major, remember? I have mental powers.

P: No, you have mental problems...you keep getting them confused. What are you going to do then?

M: Cold shoulder - make her think that I've moved on - I have to look unavailable in order to be desirable. DUH DUMBASS!

P: Yeah because we saw how well that worked the last time Mr. Didn't Even Last A WEEK!

M: No, no, no - I'm still going to talk to her - I just have to seem always having a great time with a hot girl. You wanna volunteer? You would be doing a service to humanity.

P: So you are going to make up a pretend girl which they will never meet? That won't last too long because they are your friends and I am sure they would want to meet her.

M: Which is why she has to be real - which is where you come in. Try to focus here!

P: But doesn't she already know me and know that I have a boyfriend? If you haven't mentioned it to her I am sure Nathan did somewhere in their 20 minute conversation. HA HA!

M: You suck - you could "dump" him conveniently. Maybe Michelle has a thing for Nathan!

P: Maybe! She did ask him to be her lawyer.

And that is why Paige and I almost failed Astronomy. Stay tuned for next week's edition where I will be discussing the pros and cons of crossing a river full of man-eating frogs.

*If anyone actually speaks German they will notice that the grammar in that sentence totally blew, and just to prove I do speak German I am going to take this opportunity to correct it. Here goes: Ich habe dir ein FoodSaver gekauft, du kannst es aber nicht haben!

When it's over

2006-05-12T10:50:00.000-04:00

When she began to take down the magnets on the refrigerator I knew that it was really over. I stood at attention in my Navy uniform as she took down the momentos from past vacations and loving tossed them into the trashcan like yesterday's paper. A lone tear rolled down her cheek and I stepped forward to wipe it away, but she turned her head and pushed my hand clear. I was to blame for this. If only I could love them both. It just wasn't possible. There simply wasn't enough hours in the day to satisfy the needs of my two loves.

Standing there watching her go through so much pain, I was brought back to the day we met. It was a warm fall day. The leaves had just began their slow metamorphasis into yet another dazzling autumnal display of color and light. I was late for class and I ran into her as I entered the main engineering building. Which in hindsight was lucky for her, because the force of the impact dislodged her manly shoulders from the doorway where she was trapt like a dolphin in a tuna net. We both fell forward and became a twisted mass of tangled limbs. I would have hit my head on the concrete floor, most likely rendering myself unconcious, if not for her giant quasi modo hump. I helped her up off the floor and the our eyes met and it was love at first sight.

A blinding light followed by a sudden flash of pain in my face and ass brought me back. She had punched me in the mouth when I wouldn't answer her about what I was thinking about, knocking me on my ass. "I was thinking about the day we met!" I stammered, trying to portray honesty with my eyes.

"You lying bastard!" she replied, "I know you were thinking about it! I'm no fool! Every since you found it you were only ever half here, and now that I'm leaving you forever you still refuse to show up. Well I'm sick of it. Take one final look at this beautiful hump, because this is the last time you'll see this lady's lump ever again!!"

And with that she was gone. Out of my life forever. What could I do but run into the arms of my mistress? I pulled myself up off the floor, grabbed the keys to my VW Rabbit off the counter and headed out to my office to meet my love. When I arrived I flew past security, grabbed a Krispy Kreme and ran to the elevator. The ride to the 348th floor seemed an eternity, but when I finally made it to my office and had booted up the computer the rest of my world melted away with the sight of my love. Flight Simulator.

Life as a Waiting Room

2006-05-09T13:28:00.000-04:00

I have calculated that I have wasted more than 50% of my life waiting. Waiting for the mail to come or the phone to ring. The dryer to buzz or traffic to move. Food to come or a headache to pass. For the water to warm or grass to grow or a light to change or the line to move at the grocery store. Waiting for water to boil or a workout to be over. Waiting for the wind to blow or a fish to bite. For my plane to board or my flight to be over. Life is all about waiting. Sometimes I even find myself waiting to be finished with one thing just so I can start another. I wait for my dinner to be finished in order to move onto dessert. I wait for one show to be over in order to see the next.

I'm getting too old to spend my life waiting. When I was young, 25 seemed to be ancient, but now that I'm there I can't believe how fast time has gone. Twenty five years and all I have to show for it is a German degree and this picture:

Don't get me wrong, it's a pretty good picture. I just expected more at this point in my life. Right now I'm waiting for my day to be over so that I can go home and wait for a letter to come informing me that I have earned the right to wait until I'm able to move to Europe and wait while I work towards a degree in European Studies which will then allow me to wait until I find a job. That job will open up a whole new realm of waiting. I will wait to be married and to have children and to be promoted. To go on vacation and soccer games. Waiting for Christmas and birthdays and grandchildren. I suppose there isn't anything I can do. I will just have to resign myself to my fate.

So here I sit, just waiting. Waiting.

Waiting.

How, When and Why

2006-04-27T12:30:00.000-04:00

So I started this thing because Avi has one, and as we all know I am nothing if not a sheep. Actually I started it so that I could keep everyone up to date on my life without actually having to send everyone an individual email, or worse, a group email. I hate group emails. They're so impersonal. Not a blog though, that's not impersonal. Everyone knows that I am writing directly to them and therefore it is, in fact, more personal that an individual email. Plus you get to see this chicken:
I think we can all agree that the chicken is really what blogging is all about.

Chickens aside, what I'm really trying to say is that I was sitting in the library staring at the ceiling, thinking of ways to kill myself while making it look like a murder committed by none other than Angela Merkel herself, when I came to the realization that I have a laptop and that laptop has wireless internet capabilities. So why should I do myself in (not to mention put a completely innocent political leader of the Federal Republic of Germany in prison) when I could start my blog. I'm like killer brilliant, I know.

Und jetzt gibt es die Abteilung, wobei ich nur auf Deutsch schreibe. Manchmal werde ich auf Deutsch schreiben, weil ich $70,000 ausgegeben habe, um Deutsch zu lernen, und ich denke daß wenn ich mein Deutsch nicht benutze, dann wird Gott mich töten. Alex ist Deutsch, und es wird ein Paar Sachen geben, die ich wollen werde, nur Alex zu verstehen. Obwohl Sally, Teni, Rory, Paige, und vielleicht Ben auch verstehen werden. Hmmm. Das ist ein echtes Problem. Eh, es ist mir egal. Ok, also wenn du (und Du weiß, wer Du bist) Deutsch nicht lesen kannst, dann ist das nicht mein Problem. Vielleicht sollst du seit sechs Jahren an einer Universität studieren.

Ok, that is all. This is the Mad Ox signing off.