Am I Doing it Right?

I really like my Saturday mornings these past months.  I usually get up fairly early, allow the coffee machine to warm up properly, then sit and enjoy the first espresso of the day.  I allow my thoughts to wander, and reflect on the previous week, as well as think about what lies ahead.  It is a nice feeling to sit in a comfortable chair, just sitting, listening, thinking, and being.  

This morning is just as routine as the other Saturdays, but my to-do list is slightly different.  Sure, my to-do lists vary from week to week, but, just like my grocery shopping list, many items tend to be similar.  It is all about taking time for myself, and doing what I want to do.  Piano practice is always on the list, but this week I am starting to work on new material, so the excitement is brewing.  

Several of the works are from one of my favorite composers, and one of the to-dos for today is to write him a thank you note, since once again, I find the music so compelling and great that I need to tell him as such.  

A friend of mine offered a suggestion of a song that I should adapt to piano, along with vocal.  I had never really considered the song before, but the more I thought about during the week, it seemed like a good idea.  So, that is on today's list, also. 

One of my favorite things about piano playing is the opportunity for mixing structure with interpretation. With the music from the composer, I will learn the notes, learn the dynamics, and eventually be able to play the piece as it was intended by the composer.  In this process, the learner is typically not asking, "Am I doing it right?" because you just follow the sheet music, and you know good and well when you play the wrong note.  It also helps that we have technology to help us; listening to the original piece over and over helps put the song in our head, so that we kind of "feel" it as we play.  

When it comes to adaptations, however, the opportunities are wide open.  I get to determine if I am doing it right or not, and inevitably, I find that things keep right on evolving.  Some of the stuff I was playing even a year or two ago (that was recorded for comedic value) has been changed once or twice more since then, just because I felt like it.  Instead of asking, "Am I doing it right?" I get to ask myself, "Does it feel right?"

On my to-do list this morning (and already completed, thanks very much) is the change out of my internet router.  As a guy who has spent much of his career working in the repair of electronics, I have seen a great many devices fail and require repair.  I have had the experience to speak with many frustrated customers, and enjoy the opportunity to help solve their problem.  With very likely a great deal of luck, I personally have had very few problems with my hardware over the years.  

But, I am always a little sensitive to change, especially when those changes can contribute to frustrating interruptions.  A couple of years ago, I did have a router fail, and I was able to replace it the same afternoon. (That was kind of a shitty Saturday morning, because I got myself all worked up about things before finally coming to my senses and solving the problem.)

One of the reasons that I had gotten so worked up about the router is that is was my gateway to the internet, and while I can happily find something else to do with my time in private life, I need to be connected at all times for work.  And working from home puts that extra little pressure on the situation. 

I think back about all the times I was working at some facility or in an office and the networks went down.  Everybody stood around in bewilderment, exclaiming, "We are down, we are down! What do we do?" and sometimes the outage extended long enough to really impact production.  In repair logistics, this is a big deal.  (note - I am not speaking about the cushy office job where someone cannot print on the network printer, but truth be told, all experiences are relative.)

The thing that has always stuck with me, though, is that when everyone is TOGETHER and DOWN, there is a communal sense.  You win together and you lose together.  But you get to see it in real time. 

When you are at home, you are isolated from others, so the feeling is slightly different.  From time to time, companies experience an email server outage, which is always a bit tricky, because most IT departments notify the employees of IT problems via email.  Not possible when the email server does not work.  In the office environment, you turn to your colleague and ask, "Hey, are you getting any emails?" hopefully asking the employee who actually DOES regularly receive mails. 

At home alone, you simply have to get the feeling that something may not be right. 

Since I am working home office as a new employee, I am still finding my comfort zone.  Because it is a technical company, I am a little intimidated when there is any kind of issue, software or hardware related.  I was actually relieved the other week during a conference call when one of my German colleagues (working from his own home) complained about his hardware.  It removed that isolated feeling.  Another colleague, who manages one of our customers, who happens to be the biggest network operator in Germany, had a recent connectivity issue which prevented him from joining one of our calls.  Again, I was relieved that I was not the only one. 

Two weeks ago, I was speaking with my boss via a video call, and we had some connection issues, including loss of audio, freeze up, etc.  It happened once or twice more over the next few days, and then my boss said, "Look, I do not have any of these problems with anybody else."

That is EXACTLY what I had hoped to avoid.  Agreed, some of the audio issues were a result of me being an idiot; my microphone set up is unique, but I was overlooking some of my software settings, which created the issues.  I got most of those resolved, but then my router started resetting itself (almost with glee) once or twice a day. 

Because my very first router lasted almost 11 years without incident, I failed to realize just how unusual that was.  Most of the time, a router is not going to go much past five years, but a lot of elements contribute to that.  Sure, my router is my kitchen, where smoking is allowed, and the door is open to allow four seasons of weather to blow through.  And, because I cook a fair amount, all the bits of kitchen activity will also have a negative impact on the hardware operation.  

At any rate, my "old" router is only about 2 (maybe 3) years old.  It is provided by my ISP, and I was aware that other customers had had problems through the years.  However, since I was having no difficulties, I figured things were okay.  It was not until I was having problems connecting to my boss that I started getting alarmed.  For the most part, I was thinking that it was a problem with the video software we use as a company, as I had experienced a few problems with it before.  Likewise, some of the similar issues I have experienced in Skype conversations were attributed to connection issues at the other end.  Both my sister and my father (my primary skype buddies) both have had some issues over the years, and true, we had plenty of moments of a bit of finger pointing, or at least comments like, "Hey, it is not from MY side," but ultimately it was impossible to determine where the real problem was. 

To make a long story even longer, right after my boss indirectly said, "Hey, this is really starting to piss me off," I elected to buy a replacement router.  At the very least, I would have a back up. 

Funny how these things go.  Immediately after placing the order, my existing router performed like a champ.  My connections were fast and stable, and no more random resetting.   The new router arrived last Monday, and I elected to ride my luck and wait a few days before changing them out.  Installing one is very straight forward, but I did not want to risk any unnecessary down time simply because of an error I might make in the set up.  

So, while I waited for the espresso machine to warm up this morning, I quietly setup my fritzbox, and as you can see (and probably feel), this post is taking less time for you read because the connectivity is so zippy...

The cool thing about hardware set ups is that you simply follow the diagram and instructions, and presto, you are connected!  No need to ask yourself if you are doing it right, because it is all too obvious when you do it wrong.  My mobiles and laptops are all now happily using the lan and wifi of the new box.  

The other task on today's list involves the preparations of my US tax return.  I do not procrastinate with this activity as much as my sister, but it is tedious.  The other week while discussing this with my sister, she was already complaining that hers would be trickier this year, since she had moved back to Europe during the filing year.  As I reassured her that it would not be any more difficult than any other year, I realized that my own situation would be a bit different, too.  But, I embrace the challenge, and will read up on the instruction form to make sure that I do everything right.  In a later post, I might be able to report on how that really went for me.  Last year, I do recall having some challenges submitting my electronic return.  There was a helpful (albeit annoying) message that came back within 2 minutes of pressing "submit" that would tell you if everything was okay. 

Last year about this time, I got to ask myself  "Am I doing it right?" 6 straight times, as I kept correcting and resubmitting my return.  Fingers crossed that it goes better this time round. 

Pablo asked me a couple of days ago if I was liking my new job ok, and it was a very thoughtful question.  I am finishing my third month in the new role, and things are still new.  One of the challenges I am experiencing is the need for reassurance, both from myself and from colleagues.  

In short, I have frequently been asking myself, "Am I doing it right?"

The truth is, there is no truly "right" way to do it.   To try and compensate, I am seeking at least a bit of reassurance from colleagues that I am on the "right" track.  Perhaps I should continue to change my thoughts on this, too.  The facts are: there is no way that I can have ALL the answers straight away, because I have not been with the company long enough.  Getting acclimated with business processes, business politics, and all the rest is an experience.  

Thus, it probably makes sense to focus more on, "Does it feel right?"

And the answer to that question, Pablo, is yes.  It feels right.  

keep the faith

bryan

Mehr Pech Gibt Es Nicht

 A week ago Thursday, I was watching an Arsenal match and exchanging comments about the game with a couple of friends via text message.  Because of the pandemic, the games take place in empty stadiums, which can be a little disheartening, probably for both players and the fans.  However, one of the perks of the empty stadium is the opportunity to hear more noises coming from the pitch, particularly from the players. 

During the particular match, I commented about how the players sounded when they were fouled.  A couple of players, knocked over from the opponent's sliding tackles,  were going down to the ground in apparent agony, but it was their wails of pain that were so ridiculously extravagant.  The game has long been known for such theatrics, but with the quiet stadium, the viewer sitting quietly in their living room is treated to sound bites that might just as well be in a horror film where someone is getting their leg sawed off with a chain saw.  Because there were quite a few fouls during the match, I was starting to get irritated by the number of "Agggghhh!" and "oooooohhhhhhh's" I was hearing as I watched a player get tripped in some minor incident.  Normally, within 2 seconds, the players were back on their feet and racing after the ball again, the "injury" from seconds before a distant memory. 

Two nights ago, I was watching the return leg between the same two teams, and about five minutes into the game, the Arsenal player wound up to take a shot.  He has a real boot on him, and his strike was powerful.  The shot was blocked by the defender (ironically a former Arsenal player), who took the ball right in the gut, as he was only a meter away from the striker.  The ball rebounded with even more force directly into the face of the striker, who's momentum carried him into the defender.  The collision was impressive, and both players collapsed in a heap on the ground.  Seeing it was certainly worth my monthly subscription fee to the television sender. 

Both players were knocked loopy; they had their bells rung.  

The incident happened very quickly: bam bam bam, but neither player uttered any kind of sound. 

I was obviously watching the match at home alone, so have really no idea how many people were all sitting in front of their televisions, watching as the players got treated by the medical staff for a minute or so.  

It was one of those things where you really have to laugh, because the circumstances were so unusual.  In the fact, the German commentator expressed it particularly well by saying with a slight chuckle, "Well, mehr Pech gibt es nicht," (loosely translated as "bad luck all around")

Fortunately, neither player was seriously injured, and the game resumed pretty quickly.  

For the rest of the game, I was thinking of all the times I played sports and experienced a similar situation, sometimes even getting my own bell rung, or at least got knocked loopy. 

My own soccer career started pretty early, but as 5 year olds, we tended to run around in a herd (both teams) and it looked more like a rugby scrum than anything else.  As our skills developed, however, players demonstrated more talent and strength.  That is not to say that we had complete control of our games, wayward passing was the norm.  I was regularly involved in both kicking a ball in the face and receiving a kicked ball in the face.  Once, when I was 8, I fully intended to cross the ball into the box.  I was on the right side of the field near the touchline, and instead of a beautifully lofted pass over the heads of the other players, I kicked a line drive directly into the face of my opponent.  As the ball bounced away off his face, he looked at me in surprise, then staggered off the field into the arms of his father, who happened to be standing with the other parents watching their kids play a sport they did not really understand on a Saturday morning. 

Although I felt slightly sorry that I had accidentally kicked the ball into the guy's face, I knew it wasn't intentional.  And, several minutes later in the same game, the same thing happened to me.  However, I was wearing glasses (as I did for my whole childhood, up until age 15) and the result was broken glasses and a really pissed off Bryan.  They had to stop the game, my mom had to come onto the field to pick up the pieces of my glasses, and then I continued on playing.  I wish I could report something like, "I went on to score 3 goals," but nothing like that happened.  Instead, my frustrations and humility of taking one in the face hindered my ability to stay concentrated on the game.  That being said, I did not cry or scream in pain during the incident, which was not the case for my opponent who was bawling in the arms of his dad.  

Although I am quite emotional, and in most cases not afraid to show my emotions, I also consider myself remarkably tough, especially when it comes to sports.  I think this toughness came from my experiences with my own father.  True, he did not know much about soccer, but he certainly would stand in the front yard and kick the ball back and forth with me.  My father, of course, was holding out for the father-son experiences involving sports he was more familiar with, like american football, softball, and basketball.  

I probably learned to catch a softball around the time I was starting soccer.  My dad was playing on a softball team and seemed to prefer it to baseball.  No problem from my side, though it meant that I never really grew into liking the sport of baseball, simply because he never was that big of a fan. Softball, however, was semi-kid friendly.  The ball was bigger, usually pitched underhand (which helped tremendously when learning to bat), and for me, it was really all about playing with my dad. Playing catch developed into learning to use the bat, and from there we moved onto catching pop flies. 

In one of my favorite all time comics, Calvin and Hobbes, there is a story line where Calvin learns to play baseball with his own father.  No sooner had they started practicing when a ground ball bounced up into Calvin's face, giving him a bloody nose, and resulting in them going back inside the house, where the mother was shocked by all the blood running down C's face.  "Dad tried to kill me," said Calvin in comical fashion that only a 6 year old (at heart) will understand.  

It wasn't a ground ball that got me, but rather a pop fly that my dad hit to me.  It got me right on the temple, breaking the frames of my glasses, which unfortunately resulted in the hinge of the frame cutting into my head.  This resulted in an alarming amount of blood, which did not go over so well with my mother, who quickly became hysterical when we went back inside the house to attend the wound. 

"He will be ok," my father said quietly, in effort to soothe my mother.  He was already quite comforting with me, and I imagine that he was sorry that I had gotten injured, but at the same wondering why the hell I had not put my glove up to catch the ball or at the very least, protect my face. 

As for myself, I was remarkably calm, likely because both parents were present, and the whole thing was simply an accident.  Das war Pech.  It was just unlucky. 

Soon, I was right back outside playing catch with my father, and I learned the valuable lesson that sometimes accidents happen.  As my catching and batting skills improved, I was turning into a right little champion that could really whack the pitch.  I never broke another pair of glasses during softball, but I did hit quite a few line drives into the gas lamp that stood in our front yard, ever more crooked because of the number of balls hit against it.  Eventually, after the 4th or 5th time that my line drive broke the glass panels of the light, my father suggested we go to the schoolyard or park to continue playing. 

Actually, though, we really found our stride playing american football.  My father gave me a full size leather football one year for Christmas, and that provided years of enjoyment for both of us.  The ball had a fake autograph of Terry Bradshaw, which was kind of a taboo, considering he was the quarterback of the biggest rivals of the team from Dallas.  It did not bother me, though.  What did bother me initially, was that I (or rather, my hands) were a little too small to hold a full size football.  I was probably 8 or 9, and gripping a full size football was challenging.  With practice and encouragement, though, I was soon throwing some decent spirals with some pace.  My father taught me some patterns to run, and I was rivaling many wide-receivers as I caught passes from my father via a post pattern, slant, or button-hook.  The button-hook involved running a few paces, then turning around sharply and catching the ball.  My father threw hard and accurately, he was a pretty good quarterback, at least in the father-son world I was playing in.  And, when catching a full size football in the chest on a crisp autumn day, you tend to utter an "ooof" once or twice; the ball really comes int o you that hard.  

Not once did I ever ask him to throw more gently; I simply understood that this was the way that you played the game.  

I never really played that much pickup football in the neighborhood, but from time to time I did get together with some guys in my sixth grade class.  I was a little surprised that they insisted upon playing with a nerf football, and furthermore, very few had much experience with full size leather footballs.  To be fair, the full size ball was still a little too big, and none of us were quite ready to be able to sing "Big hands you're the one..." (sorry, someone bet me that I could not find a way to put a lyric from the Flaming Lips into a post...)

I had always been a little unsure about playing tackle football, but the trick was: play with kids your own age and size.  The truth was, all the other kids did not want to get tackled any more than I did, and the key to this was to just outrun everyone.  I was pretty good at that, and since most of our games involved passing (as opposed to running), I already had experience running various patterns.  Most of the other kids were not malicious, so no one was really trying to clobber anyone.  From time to time, someone got the wind knocked out of them, but that was never a big deal.  

What was a big deal, though, was what the nerf ball brought to the game.  A nerf was a soft squeezy alternative to a hard (usually leather) ball:  the american football was particularly popular, but there was a complete assortment of other balls, too.  The thing about a nerf is that with time, the ball will become grubby and starts to get a little crusty, especially if it has been exposed to moisture.  Sometimes little chunks would come out of the ball, but we tended to play with a ball until it finally disintegrated.  

Sometimes, the ball would become really crusty, especially when the "coating" started to come off the ball.  

Enter the phenomenon of nerf eye.  From time to time, someone would catch the ball in the eye.  I am not saying this happened all that much, but when it did, it got very dramatic.  The unfortunate victim would yelp in surprise and pain, and the rest of us would all stand back and allow the person plenty of room to recover.  During this time, it was perfectly allowed for the guy to writhe around in pain and utter sounds of anguish. 

Most of us had first hand experience with nerf eye, not so much with a nerf football (since this tended to be an isolated incident) but rather with a miniature nerf basketball.  Almost every kid I went to school with in 6th grade already had a little tiny basketball goal that would hang on the door of the bedroom.  This provided hours of enjoyment and distraction for those of us not so inclined to stay focused on homework.  Again, the ball had a tendency to get grubby and crusty, and because an individual could shoot baskets by themselves, there is an element of creativity that one does in the privacy of their bedroom.  This (at least in my case, but confirmed by the reactions of others) led to semi-frequent contact with the ball to the eye.  Hence nerf eye.

Roughly speaking, nerf texture on the eye is probably the equivalent of using an abrasive bathroom cleaner or sandpaper to wash and dry your hands.  One would never put Comet in the eye, but I imagine that it would be a similar sensation to having a nerf ball touch your eyeball.  We are all sensitive to our eyes, and we do not like any foreign objects getting in our eyes, especially something that is so abrasive.  The consequences could be tremendous. 

This is precisely why we, as pre-teens playing an afternoon pickup game of football would abruptly stop and wildly exclaim to one another, "Give him room, he has nerf eye! Nerf eye! Oh my gosh!" all secretly grateful that it happened to someone else.  

I think there were two secret fears that every boy had with sports, nerf eye and getting racked.  Both are rites of passage, but the latter tends to last a lifetime.  This is why, we as males, laugh and wince EVERY time we see it happen to someone, whether in a sporting event, a film, or in real life.  I am not saying that we WISH it upon someone, but we can always relate, since we have had the experience personally. 

As a goalkeeper who played on teams with somewhat weak defending, I spent a lot of matches getting shelled, shots coming fast and furious from opponents eager to add another goal to their account.  While I certainly could not stop all the shots, I made more than my share of saves.  One evening at my local indoor facility, we played against our top rival in the league.  That season, we were playing particularly well and were actually tied for first place.  They were a superior team, but we were playing with a lot of heart, and literally (in my case) with balls. 

On that evening, the game was tight.  We were tied, and then someone on my team conceded a penalty. 

Neat. 

Up steps their top goal scorer, and I stood on my line. 

The guy took his shot, and I moved the right way and stopped the shot. 

With my nuts. 

I was on an adrenaline rush, and was able to stand up, release the ball to a teammate, who dribbled down the field and scored the game winning goal. 

Meanwhile, I blacked out for a second, then managed to crawl off the pitch and collapse on the bench.  The visual in my head was someone taking two raw eggs and throwing them as hard as they could against a wall.  I was not able to speak at that moment, but I did not even want to open my mouth for fear that any internal body parts would come out. 

But I toughed it out, and despite my inability to speak, never made any sounds or noises of anguish and pain.  

An hour later, I was quietly sipping a beer in the pub, and remarked to my friends and teammates, "Well that hurt, but I am glad that we won the game because I saved the penalty."

Was it Pech or was it a fluke?  Who cares. 

Somebody taking a ball to the nether regions regularly happened during my footballing career, but for the most part it was never deliberate. 

The same cannot be said in the game of tennis.  Though it was never an instruction from my father or any coach, we had a tendency to aim for the body in tennis, particularly when our opponent was at the net.  It was a particularly effective strategy, since the opponent has to decide which head to protect with their racket.  

Over the years, I never had such an incident on the court when playing tennis with my father.  However, we both had plenty of stories from other matches that we had played where someone got zinged, allowing us to wince and laugh at their misfortune. 

Ironically, the "play tough" mentality that I learned from playing sports with my father backfired a couple of times.  Like learning to throw hard and catch hard, my father encouraged me to play with power.  Thus, I hit the tennis ball with plenty of pace and strength.  Spending a lot of time in the weight room added some particular zing to my serve.  

This was highly effective in my game.  I regularly aced my opponents, frequently on my second serve.  With power and pace, sometimes one sacrifices control.  Thus, I regularly double-faulted.  In singles, the consequence is that you lose the game, set, and possibly match.  In doubles, you have the additional risk of possibly serving a wayward ball into your partner, who, in the service part of the game, stands halfway between the baseline and the net. 

The first time I served an 80mph serve into the shoulder blades of my father, I thought it was funny.  

He didn't. 

I was certainly never aiming at him or any of my doubles partners, but it happened multiple times more to my father (usually in the back but sometimes on the butt) before he finally started standing next to me on the baseline while I served.  

My serve got even stronger once I started playing on the college team.  I also got to experience first hand how a powerful serve feels between your shoulder blades when my own doubles partner smacked a few serves into me.  

My dad was right, it was not funny at all. 

But, I stayed tough, and other than a "DAMN, that HURT!" I really did not say much. 

One Saturday, my doubles partner and I played against some opponents who quickly showed that their serves were pretty powerful, also.  I had already been aced several times, and was getting more and more frustrated.  I envisioned using a little spin to return the serve, with the intent to send the ball screaming back over the net and down the line to win the point.  

The serve came flashing over the net, and I took a mighty swing.  I was concentrating on putting a bit of spin on the return, so was completely shocked when the racket (my racket) smacked me in the forehead, with full force. 

As the ball did not go back over the net, my partner turned towards me to ask me what the hell I was doing (or why I had not returned the ball).  His eyes widened as he asked, "Dude, what the fuck happened to you? You are BLEEDING!" 

I had split my forehead open, and had blood streaming down my face. 

The pain started when I saw the blood, as did my anger and frustration.  Indeed, it hurt like hell. 

And, I really rang my own bell.  I knocked myself completely loopy. 

Somehow, I was able to continue the match, but my heart and head were no longer really in it.  Thus, we lost pretty quickly and convincingly.  That was disappointing enough; I also had a wound on my forehead.  

It was the perfect time to say something like, "Mehr Pech gibt's nicht," but I did not yet know that phrase. 

Instead, I considered myself fortunate that I avoided racking myself with a nerf ball. 

With that, I will close this post so that I can go out and do some injury free sport.  

see you out there

bryan

A Long Time Between Snips

I took a look at the old Kansas music video of their song "How Long" as part of my research for this week's post.  My last hair cut was 107 days ago, and while its length got nowhere near the length of the band members in the video, I was starting to get the feeling that we were approaching a point of no return. 

This feeling came about when something tapped me on the shoulder one night while I was sleeping.  Most of us are not at our sharpest during the sleeping hours, and my immediate thought was, "Who is in here with me?" which was a fair question, as I live alone.  

Well, it took me about 1,07 seconds to shoot out of bed and run to the bathroom (ironically my first safe haven) before walking around the rest of the apartment as I tried to calm down.  No one was with me, and the culprit that had surprised me and my shoulder was simply a lock of hair.  

Things were getting ridiculous.  

This all started innocently enough when I visited my salon last November about the time I was signing the employment contract to begin working again.  I left the salon that day with a pleasant "Wir sehen uns wieder in Dezember," planning to get another cut just before the new year started, not least of all, to be fresh for the new job.  

Because of lock downs earlier in the year, I had previously gone about 2 months between hair cuts.  At that time, it made sense to bring things under control.  I was actually pretty cautious when I finally got to go back to the salon, but was very pleased to see the measures they had taken to keep everyone distanced and safe.  

Nothing was really normal in 2020, but I must say that I enjoyed the monthly visits to the salon during the summer and autumn period; at least I was getting a chance to interact with people.  From what I could see, there was really no tremendous risk by visiting a salon, no real increased risk, perhaps better said. It gave me a chance to see people in other parts of the city, at least those people using the U-Bahn. 

Then, Germany took the decision to put more restrictive measures in place just before Christmas, and this included shutting all salons.  Again, I accepted the decision; the numbers were going in the wrong direction, and the priority was to bring things back under control. 

I kind of laughed as I thought about what I would do for my first day in the office getting my photo ID made, but figured it would not be that big of a deal.  And, aside from the lady at reception taking the picture, who clearly recognized that she was having to make a photo of a person having a bad hair day and for that reason could not stop giggling, it was really no big deal. 

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I was set to spend four weeks at one of the sites in Sömmerda, and as the lockdown continued, I conceded that things could get a little tedious.  I was approaching 8 weeks without a salon visit, and the wind and rain in the region were making things a bit challenging on the grooming front.  

Initially, I was a little self conscious.  I was meeting new colleagues, and needed to show some display of credibility.  In truth, no one ever said, "Dude what the fuck happened to you?" but I did see a few eyebrows twitch from time to time.  

After my stint in Sömmerda, I am back doing home office, which involves video calls.  Again, my role will require interaction with customers, preferably on video (given the current climate), so as we progressed through February, I was getting more agitated.  Sure, everyone else was in the same boat as me, but it was getting annoying, all the same. 

By the end of last month, I was more than relieved when it was announced that as of start of March, salons would be allowed to reopen after their 2 and half month closure.  There were lots of reports in the news about this, and clearly it was a problem that had impacted plenty of people. 

On the one hand, we are a vain society, and the industry thrives on people regularly getting their dos, the color jobs and whatever.  My mother kept to a very strict "every 3 weeks" routine for her hair cuts, and my grandmother still makes weekly trips to the beauty parlor.  

I do not consider myself to be particularly vain, but I have always liked the regular trips to the salon, myself. 

As a child, I was fortunate to have an old-timey barbershop in my neighborhood, and that was where I got my very first hair cut from Jerry, the owner who went on to cut my hair until I was 17.  At Jerry's, I got to read old magazines about fishing and hunting while I waited my turn.  He always allowed me to take a bottle of soda from the fridge.  Jerry smoked heavily, during the hair cuts themselves, and it all seemed to fit.  My dad went there, too, which is why I was taken there from an early age.  Getting to climb on the booster seat that enabled a small child to sit in a proper sized barber chair was a treat, as was getting a squirt from the air compressor at the end of the cut (which took all of 12 minutes, maybe) as Jerry blew the loose hairs off of me.  I know he enjoyed doing that with everyone, particularly children, but he continued to do it with the same smile on his face even as I was a teen-ager. 

When I think of fond memories from my childhood, I will never forget those trips to the barber.  It just seemed to be a safe place and fully of happy thoughts.  It never really occurred to me that other kids might have had similar feelings, but then one day, when I was 18 or 19, I was riding down the street with Chris, and he pointed out his barber shop as we drove by.  "Wait, that is (or was) my barbershop, too," I said, quite surprised that someone who did not grow up in the neighborhood (or even the state) would even know about the cool barbershop on Arapaho.  That was when I realized that a lot of people like the old-timey experience of going to the barbershop.  Seriously, it was like being in the Andy Griffith Show. 

Then, one day in 1986 or early 1987, my sister introduced me to the salon of Toni and Guy.  It was slick, modern, and cool.  My sister had been going to a stylist for a time, so I naturally went to him, too. It was a whole new experience, and one that I really liked.  It was my first experience in a coed salon, in fact, most customers back then were women (or better, girls).  This was a stark contrast to the very masculine environment at the barber shop I knew.  Additionally, the process took a whole lot longer, usually about an hour.  I would sit in the small waiting area, where all the magazines were more glamour books, filled with the latest styles for both men and women.  Most of the time they would offer a hot beverage (like an espresso), which I thought was particularly cool, though similar to grabbing a bottle of Nehi out of the cooler at Jerry's.  Then, they took to you to get your hair washed.  

Ooh. Lovely.  

All of this happened before I even got to see my stylist.  

The experience, in my opinion, was really worth it.  True, it was not inexpensive, but once I was regularly going to Toni and Guy, I was paying for the cuts myself.  My mom actually made me go in and tell my barber Jerry that I was "abandoning" him, but there were no hard feelings, and I know he could understand that it was time for me to move on. 

My salon experience was an extension of my growing independence.  My original salon visit was at NorthPark, meaning I would get to drive by myself somewhere further than around the corner from the house.  I eventually was going to the Galleria with frequency, and as I was tending to follow my stylists, if they moved, I had to go with them.  

Sadly, in those early years, two of my stylists did lose their lives to AIDS.  I grew up very tolerant and accepting of others, and while I was certainly aware of the stylists working at the salon who were gay, it was usually because they said so.  The whole environment was so open and accepting, and had such a good vibe.  A couple of years later when I was in college, interacting with a lot more ignorant people who kept stating very homophopic things (ie...like early Eddie Murphy kind of stuff), I was regularly standing up and explaining the obvious about how attractions work, etc.  I was so used to being around people from different sexual orientations, and it made no difference to me. 

During college, I would schedule short trips back to Dallas (only about an hour away) for my monthly visits.  I have long since forgotten a few of the names and faces, now just brief memories, but one day, after my previous stylist had moved on to another job, I found her. 

Constance. 

Like with waitstaff in pubs, I tend to develop crushes.  And with Constance, it was a huge one.  She was absolutely one of the coolest girls I have ever met in my life. When I first met her, she was at the Prestonwood Toni and Guy location, and I looked forward to each visit.  Not only was she really cool and cute, she was an excellent stylist, and worth the experience.  

After I got over my shyness (which lasted for about 2 years), we were able to talk about all kinds of things, from music to art to travel to whatever.  About the time I moved into my first apartment, she had switched to a salon location more on my side of town, but as I was regularly driving all over the city already, it made no difference where she was.  I would be there, too. 

Eventually, she moved to a salon at one of my most favorite shopping centers in the city, at Preston and Northwest Highway.  It was no longer a TandG, but that no longer made a difference.  People spend a lot of time searching for the perfect hair dresser, and when they do, they stick with them forever.  

I was doing the exact same thing, with the added element of the crush. 

One evening, I went to a Peter Murphy concert, and in one of those cool moments, I bumped into her and her friend.  We proceeded to enjoy the concert together, both of us being particular fans, then went out for a few more beers.  We all had a beer or two too many, but it was a super night out, and we said as such as we all went home at the end of the evening. 

I stayed with Constance for the next couple of years as she moved to one or two different salons.  As a woman with her own agenda, she started talking about plans to move away, which, despite my own similar feelings of wanting to do the same thing, I was not ready for her to go. 

Funny how the timing came about.  Mid 1996, after being a client (and friend) with Constance for over 5 years, I got an opportunity to consider relocating to Massachusetts.  Meanwhile, she had left another salon, and was preparing for a move herself.  She did continue to offer a couple of cuts from her living room, and then informed me she was moving to California, which is where she grew up.  

I was devastated, but at the same time very distracted with my own situation, as I was soon to be in Boston, myself. 

Now, the details are a little sketchy now; I know I missed her going away party, but I did get a chance to say goodbye, and I also had her address.  Yes, I was still writing letters in those days. 

So Constance disappeared, and I never really got a chance to express myself (I tend to need more than 5 years).  

But, with the preparations of my own move, there was no time to dwell on things.  Furthermore, I was now in a little pickle, because I had no stylist to turn to. 

Enter Anita, a nice woman who I knew from my local pub.  Julie, one of the waitresses that I also had a crush on (as did the rest of the fucking city) suggested Anita, and pointed out the other girl serving drinks across the room. I had a quick chat, and made a quick appointment. 

There was a brief panicky moment when my world suddenly went on double-tilt, as I suddenly was speaking with a cute girl who happened to be both a waitress and a hair stylist.  But, Anita's boyfriend (or husband, at least soon to be) was also a mutual acquaintance, so things stayed ok. 

Anita was particularly great because she brought a whole new change to my hair.  Turns out she was only waitressing to help out a little at the pub.  She was quite the capable stylist, and proceeded to cut my hair extra short; a look and style I kept for the next many years. 

Anita cut my hair only the one time before I left for Massachusetts.  Shortly after I got settled into my new apartment and was starting to look for a new salon, I was surprised to receive a letter from...

Constance. 

I no longer remember who wrote to whom first, but in all likelihood, I wrote the first letter, before I moved.  She had the good grace to write back, and I received the forwarded letter in Boston.  By this time, at least through writing, I had expressed my secret crush on her, and kind of expressed why I had never made any effort to pursue any kind of relationship with her, using the grounds that it was a a little unprofessional.  By that, I mean it was for the same reasons that I never tried to act on any of the crushes that I had had on waitstaff at my locals, and have stayed true to this pretty much ever since.  The self defeatist in me prefers not to disrupt a good experience (like pub time or a good haircut) with emotions that might result in awkward situations.  

What did come as a bit of a surprise was that Constance had written that she, too, had had feelings for me.  Strong enough that at times she had struggled to hold her feeling back, but not so strong that she did not wisely recognize pretty much the same thing as I had done.  We come across people in our lives, but sometimes the stars are not aligned, and we need to go our separate ways.  At any rate, it was a special thing for me, and as much as I am glad to have had that experience, it has been years since I have given it much thought, choosing instead to appreciate all the things that HAVE happened in the 25 years since. 

When Boston came to a close, I returned to Dallas, and sought Anita again.  My experience at the salon in the north was not horrible, but it was not great.  True, my bar had really been set high.  Anita was delighted to have me as a client again, and I was a really proud customer and friend over the next years, up until I moved to Europe.  During that time, she changed salons twice, then built her own salon in the back of her house that she shared with her husband.  They lived a few streets away, and I saw them regularly as we tended to run in the same circles.  I ended up playing soccer with the husband on the Dubliner team, and was around for the birth of their son.  Really nice people they are, and Anita was particularly nice.  I had a guilty moment of having a crush on her one day as she was finishing my cut.  She remarked out of the blue, "We found a puppy," which was just a very random but sweet thing to say.  Anita was on the quiet side, and I am not so chatty in the barber stool myself, so many salon experiences were just quiet and pleasant; the appreciation was always there, for not only appreciative clients, but also that one does not always have to gab away in the hair salon.  

The timing kind of worked out, because as I was preparing to move to Europe, Anita and her husband were preparing to move to Seattle, which is where I believe they still live.  Alas, I have not kept in contact with them, though both Anita and her husband were quite excited about my new start in Europe. 

I returned to my old Toni and Guy ways once I got to Europe.  I tended to visit the Valencia salon even after I moved to Germany.  But, I have been a regular client of my Frankfurt location, despite having had 5 stylists over the years.  Four of them moved on to other things, including two pregnancies, and I have been happy with my girl these past four years.  The salon experience is still great, and I hope my girl continues for the next while at least.  

No longer is it as important that my stylists are of similar age, like Constance and Anita were.  But, I need to be able get on with them,  and recently, finally had the pleasure of my stylist making a suggestion on how to cut my hair.  Unlike Constance and Anita, who were really creative and would offer suggestions about styles, etc, everyone I had worked with was reluctant to offer their own opinion, and I had missed that.  

True, part of the reason for the recent suggestion was due to the length of time (and hair) between salon visits.  No one, including myself and my stylist, had ever seen just exactly what happens to my hair when you go almost 15 weeks without a snip.  

When the restrictions were relaxed at the beginning of March, I arranged an appointment to return to my local Toni and Guy, and was so glad to go in and see everyone after the long break.  The experience went well, and I really feel for those who work in industries that are particularly impacted by the pandemic; they went through some really rough times. 

On my way to the salon Thursday afternoon, it started raining buckets the moment I stepped out of the apartment.  The quick walk to the U-Bahn station resulted in a very soppy Bryan, and 15,86 weeks of wet hair was quite a shock for all the people I saw hurrying down the street.  Fortunately no one had time to stop and gawk, they did that once we were on the platform waiting for the train.  One lady almost tripped and fell, but I motioned that I was on my way to get the mess taken care of. 

Sure enough, the sun came back out right as I was finishing my visit.  My stylist put some product in my hair, stating that it was kind of windy outside, but I was okay with it. It is a little longer than previous cuts, but why not try something new? 

I truly hope that I do not have to wait so long between salon visits, but am quite glad for the memories I had time to think about while I was waiting these past months.  While I hope things are good for Anita and her family, I really hope that Constance is doing well.  In fact, I choose to believe so. 

So, my latest cut is in honor of a Champion.  

see you out there

bryan

 

 

  

Verknallt in eine Synchronstimme: a Crush on a Dub

 "That voice is a real head turner." 

Okay, we almost never hear anyone say that sentence.  Instead, we more commonly hear, " He or she is a real head turner," as we tend to associate the statement with seeing as opposed to hearing. 

I consider myself to be more affected by sound than by sight, although I am certainly influenced by both senses.  But, I do not think I have ever stopped listening to a band or performing artist because of how they looked. I had been listening to the albums of the group Yes for several years before I ever saw a picture or a video of them performing.  The first time I DID see some photos of them all together, I was surprised at the bell bottoms, long hair, and in the case of their keyboardist, a cape.  I thought, "what the hell is this?" or something to that effect, then kept right on listening to them. 

True, the visual influence of music did come into play; "they just look like rock stars," was a statement I read frequently in music press, and I would always go back to the same point, "yes, but their music sucks."

We all know many examples of successful "artists" who have less artistic talent but look awesome in the press shoot, right?

It is relative, but I think most would agree that we all appreciate when multiple senses get triggered at once; hence the "look and sound" that we tend to enjoy. 

I am reminded of the movie, "Singin' in the Rain," a film I have seen probably 2000 times.  In the film, which in about the onset of talking pictures in the film industry, the blonde bombshell has a really grating voice that poses a real problem for the film studio.  They end up finding a woman (also very attractive, but more along the lines of a Mary Ann as opposed to a Ginger) with a very pleasant speaking and singing voice, and have her dub the voice of the glamorous film star in order to "fit" the voice to the look.  

Seeing that movie was probably my first experience with dubbing, or synchronisierung (in German), and I have been fascinated by the concept ever since.  

And besides that, I do tend to notice any contrast between sound and visual that doesn't quite compute.  I am not talking so much about looking at the sun shine while hearing thunder in the background, but more like seeing a 30 year old huge body builder speak with a prepubescent voice.  It just does not "fit." 

I do not want to start talking unconscious biases, but I acknowledge that I have them.  But bias is an awfully strong word and does not really pertain to the context here.  After all, we have all been in restaurants or at parties and have heard someone laugh like a hyena, and have immediately turned our heads towards the noise, in order to see who it was that laughed that way.  Let us face it, we want to see if the laugh fit the appearance of the individual.  My argument about bias relates to me not judging them for how their laugh fits them, but it is true, I do like hearing laughter, and sometimes someone has such a pleasant laugh (which demonstrates a whole lot of character, appreciation for life and humor) that I just want to see who it is so that I can share in the experience. 

I am getting slightly off track, so hopefully I can write myself back into the main topic. 

Earlier this week, a friend of mine sent me a funny text.  I had sent her a recording of me singing and playing piano.  She had played it for her husband (also a personal friend), and he had responded to her question, "do you recognize the voice?" by saying, "is it the guy from Pulp?" referring to the popular band from the 90s.  

I was actually quite flattered by the comment.  For the most part, people tend to make only visual comparisons with me: Fred Gwynne, Tom Waits, or Ron Perlman are the top hitters.  I used to take this a little too personally, but over time, have just accepted it as part of who I am, and how people tick.  What is rather interesting, is that the experience has helped me understand a lesson in aesthetics.  Perhaps the masses do not find a doppelgänger of Mr Waits or Mr Perlman to be the best thing ever, but there are plenty of people out there that do.  In the early days of the Old Monk, I had a memorable encounter with a girl who absolutely was NUTS about Tom Waits.  Something very similar happened at a Bernemer Kerb a few years ago when I found myself in conversation with a woman who had some particularly interesting fantasies about Hellboy.  

Understandably, people will react to what they experience first.  In public places, one is more likely to see someone before hearing them (unless you are in a crowded restaurant when the squeaky voiced muscle bound guy laughs obnoxiously).  True, no one has ever said to me, "wow, you sound just like Tom Waits," but on the other hand, no one has ever said, "wow, you look just like Howard Carpendale."

Howard C is a South African singer who moved to Germany many years ago, and because a very popular Schlager singer in the 1980s.  I knew nothing about this until one day I was sitting in a restaurant with Nadja, and our waiter made the comment that I sounded just like the singer.  I was surprised, because I had no idea who the singer was, and furthermore, was baffled as to why such a young waiter would know the musician.  The waiter himself was early 20s, seemingly way too young to listen to such music.  It turned out that the guy's mother (or grandmother, perhaps both) were HUGE fans of the singer, and as a result, the guy grew up listening to that music.  The waiter admitted that he was not particularly a fan, but did comment on how much I sounded like the singer.  Interestingly enough, the similarity comes from how my German speaking voice comes across; there is no physical resemblance whatsoever. 

Short pause here while I make a note about a future topic:  our tastes in music and film are influenced by our parents, but it is pretty much one way traffic.  I grew up with heavy exposure to the likes of Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole and Tony Bennett, thanks to my mother, but she and I never sat around discussing the finer points of why the Jam was such a great trio or why London Calling is my favorite album.  To her, those things were either traffic congestion or making a long distance telephone call to someone in Britain.  Meanwhile, I can probably still name almost all of the top 10 hits of the aforementioned crooners.  And, if we need to talk about musicals from the 1950s and 1960s, I am your man.  

We like what we like.  We like what appeals to us.  Some of us like film to always be in Original Version (without dubbing, and instead subtitled).  Others prefer a dubbed version, where the dialog is in local market language.  

Though I still prefer OV, as I believe this captures the true meaning, the true emotions better, I have become more acclimated to dubbed versions.  Part of this is out of necessity, since the German market (like many other markets) tends to broadcast films and shows from other countries.  The synchronization industry is huge in Europe, and I would be missing out on some really good broadcasting (from Scandinavia and from France) if I did not watch with dubbing.  

The more time I spend abroad, I think I appreciate this concept better.  I have several German friends who really really like British humor, and for years I could not understand how they were able to watch a sketch of Monty Python, an episode of Black Adder, or a film from the Cornetto trilogy dubbed into German; how would the humor translate?

I can better relate to this now, as I have recently been watching some French productions.  I am a huge fan of French cinema, have a strong appreciation for French culture, and have a particular fondness for the French accent (particularly female accent), despite not being able to speak the language.  To this day, albeit the opportunities are infrequent, I try and work the statement "gently shove" into any conversation with a French woman, just so I can hear her say, "leetle poosh."

In short, I know what I like, whether it be the look, the sound of a voice, and most importantly, the character.  

My sister once commented that she was not a particular fan of the German accent, and I can understand why she said that, but also know that for me, who quite likes the language, there are plenty of examples of beautiful sounding German voices.  But it is relative, right?  Not everyone finds the guttural sound so pleasant, but consider the accent of the southern United States:  some people hear hillbilly, while others hear Southern Belle.  

I was eating flammenkuchen in a winebar in Marburg a few years ago, and our waitress spoke with such a wonderful German voice, I have wanted to return not because of the food, but simply to hear her again. That was a pretty intense situation where I almost lost the plot.  Beauty (in my eyes and ears) is still intimidating.  I was hardly able to consume my meal at the restaurant because her voice was so lovely.  Intimidation is also relative:  I am probably in the minority when it comes to being a guy who is unable to go through the checkout aisle if the clerk is particularly cute, but I have seen plenty of people stumble or flop around when it is clear they are interacting with someone they find attractive.

So when I started watching a French movie series based on Agatha Christie novels, I found myself in my element:  a movie set in the 1960s, French culture, a murder mystery, witty characters, and one of the female leads happens to be kind of my "look."  You might even say that she is a "head turner."

True, the actress is ridiculously good looking, but her appeal really comes from the character that she plays; it adds to things a whole lot.  Said character happens to be a redhead, which really suits her.  A friend of mine has a real thing for red hair; his reaction to redheads is very similar to what happened to me that time in Marburg, and not surprisingly, he knew the film series because of this actress.  I totally understand why. 

The one challenge with the series is that the OV broadcast has no subtitles, and I unfortunately cannot follow the French dialog.  However, I found the German voices in the French production to be exceptional.  In fact, the voices are so great, I actually checked the OV version to listen to the similarities in voices.  You see, in dubbing exercises, the industry tends to find the local language voice which is really close to the original.  They try and find the "fit."  

What amazed me with this series is that I find that I actually like the German voices even MORE than the French ones.  My respect for the synchron industry has really jumped up.  Setting the cuteness factor of the impressive redhead aside for a moment, her character and the way her voice comes through her character is just incredible.  I found myself looking up the German voice actress to learn more about her.  She, too, is rather attractive (in my opinion), but it is the way she "voices" the role that I found ever more attractive.  I now have a little crush on her.  

In the films, the detective, who kind of plays a Cary Grant type role, has a secretary that is a blonde bombshell type.  Her voice is a little squeaky, intentionally so.  Again, I like the German voice even more than the French voice, though both are quite entertaining.  

All in all, the show is brilliant, and keeps me wondering about my appreciation for French and German actresses, especially in the combination of seeing one and hearing another.  

It seems that this phenomena is not just with one series.  The other day, I was watching a British crime comedy set on a French Caribbean island.  This show is only dubbed into German, but again, I am finding myself quite smitten with the German voices of the French actresses, who also fall nicely into Bryan's cute appreciation factor category.  

When I am at a loss for words when in situations where I am overwhelmed by beauty, I tend to say very intelligent things like, "gosh."

"Gosh, that voice I heard last night in the movie...she sure is is a head turner."

hear you out there

bryan