Howdy GCVers (I’m working on it, I’m working on it, I promise.)
I’ve been busy cranking out articles for my new slave masters, the Bulwark. I kid, I kid. Yesterday, I published my second (sticks chest out) article as a — stands on the desk — Military Affairs Fellow for the Bulwark.
Here’s the link. Take it out for a test drive. Just make sure to return it, you hear.
Pretty spectacular, huh? Who doesn’t want to read about Iranian malfeasance? Hey, wake up! I’m writing here!
Anyway, I also spent a couple of hours writing about Ukraine, and boy, is that a fun-filled, good news story. Should be out on Monday. Inshallah.
So today, boys and girls, I’d like to spend some time giving you my first impressions of my new home: Kansas.
Now, I lived here before. In 2016, I spent a year in North Kansas City (NKC 4 Life) while attending — gets back on the desk — the School of Advanced Military Studies (SAMS) at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. NKC was a nice little spot. Far better than the sucking chest wound that is Montgomery, Alabama.
Throughout my year-long stint in NKC, I met the lovely Charity. A year into our relationship, I departed for Korea for two years. After I gave her a beautiful diamond ring — Thanks, Emily Demo—we bought a little house in Brookside, which is in Kansas City, Kansas.
Nice house. But not my type of neighborhood. Friendly people, but everyone had the obnoxious “In This House . . . No Hatred . . .We Love Everyone. . . We Believe in Science… Insert stupid progressive bromide here.” My lovely bride, Charity, forbade me from buying a bright red MAGA hat, walking around the neighborhood, and knocking on some doors to put them to the test. It sounded like fun to me. (Yes, she’s the adult in the relationship. Duh.)
We’re in a different hood now. It’s called Oak Park in the lovely Overland Park, Kansas neighborhood. And, man, are the people friendly. I mean, wow. Yesterday, my next-door neighbor stopped by to ask if I needed any help getting some oversized boxes — Thanks, Mike and Belinda—off my front lawn.
Who does that?
Kansans, that’s who.
While I haven’t been to every state in the union — fall road trip, baby, it’s happening!—I can confidently state that I’ve never met nicer people in my life—the salt of the earth. Never want to be an imposition. Midwest nice, people.
As an ornery Texan, this is a difficult new hood. Deep inside, I’m a misanthrope. Most people drive me bonkers. They exhaust me. I’m not much for small talk, either.
Well, I better brush up on my small talk game.
Yesterday, I took the most incredible dog in the history of mankind, Bucky — many people say he is the most incredible dog ever, believe me —to our new vet down the road. After assuaging Bucky’s concerns — he hates doctors like me—I was escorted into a small room.
Immediately, a spry old man sauntered in and introduced himself. “I’m Marc.” He then proceeded to give me a death-grip handshake. What the hell is going on here, I thought to myself.
Then it began.
He talked. And talked. And talked. About his life as a vet. About Kansas State Football. Then, dear G*d, I made the critical mistake of relating to him.
He started a soliloquy on thriftiness by stating, “Look, son (I’m 45, btw), I’m from western Kansas. We don’t pay for services we can do ourselves.”
(Point of personal privilege. I’m from Texas. I pay for services I’m too lazy to do myself. That’s the beauty of capitalism.)
Anyway, back to the story.
I shook my head. And then stated, “My father-in-law is from western Kansas.”
He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me.
GULP.
“Oh, man. I can talk about western Kansas for hours!” he exclaimed.
And then he did.
He talked about his little town Waakeeney. He told me that my in-law’s family hailed from Collyer, Kansas. (He was wrong about this. My in-laws spell their last name, Zeigler, not Ziegler. Bruh, what is this, amateur hour?).
Then I told him my father-in-law was the famous Quinter HS Football Head Coach, Ken Zeigler. The man who brought home the state championship for the town many moons ago (cue, Bruce Springsteen’s Glory Days).
“Of course, I’ve heard of him.”
I then got an entire history of the rivalries between all the small western Kansas towns.
It was a tour de force. Somewhere along the way, Bucky got treated, and everything looks solid for the 9-year-old Bloodhound.
Half of Overland Park and a quarter of western Kansas will descend on my house for my daughter’s birthday this weekend. The Zeiglers roll deep, my friends.
And it’s good. I like it, I really do.
One of the great things about these fine people is that they remind me of the inherent goodness of most Americans. Through these conversations, that admittedly last far too long for my likn’, I’m relearning how to be civil.
Reintegrating into the civilian world is a daunting task. You guys are weird. Let me tell ya. Many veterans have a sense of loneliness and loss of identity. I get that. A lot of it has to do with the isolation that is modern America. Everyone is on their phones, staring at some moronic social media feed or watching cat videos on YouTube (is that a thing, still?).
But here in Kansas, people wanna talk. And for a man who has spent far too much time alone, trying to get away from people because of the demons inside me, it can be challenging.
However, it is precisely what I need. Someone to VERY POLITELY force the issue on me.
So, Kansans, I’m game. Happy to talk.
But do me a favor, please. When I blink five times and start inching toward the door, give this ornery Texan a break.
Until next time. . .
This makes me laugh. Too funny. Keep writing. Hug Alice for me. Glad Bucky (the deer) survived the vet visit.