Laughter and Luck

I am one of those guys who always says, "I am not superstitious," but you will never find me walking under a ladder.  In fact, I am not all that keen with walking underneath the scaffolding that is put up on the building fronts in my neighborhood, but sometimes I have to. 

Likewise, I do not often consider myself lucky, but nor do I consider myself unlucky.  

That being said, I do recognize events or happenings can have an element of luck.  It is chance, after all. 

The goalkeeper who has to take a penalty kick in the 11th round of a shootout, is he unlucky for failing to convert, or did the opposing keeper just make a lucky save?

Was it unlucky that I had a bad dream that caused me to jump out of bed precisely when that shootout started on Thursday night? 

I am choosing to consider it lucky.  

As I was walking around my apartment and trying to calm myself down (it was a pretty scary dream, though I no longer can recall the specific details), I thought to myself, "hey, let me just check the result of the final," and as soon as I got to the website, I realized that the shootout n was just starting.  So, I followed the online commentary, deciding that I was not awake enough to turn on the TV and locate the channel to watch it live.  It provided the needed distraction from my bewildered, frightened state from a few moments before, and had the extra little bonus that comes when you are a neutral observer of a nerve-racking penalty shootout, especially if the result goes in your not so neutral favor.  (Funny how we claim to be neutral even though we have a preference.)

Staying on the football, is it unlucky that the defensive player tries to pass the ball out of the box directly in front of his goal, but somehow kicks the ball directly into the opposing forward, resulting in a rather comical and unusual own goal?

With that example, I would probably say that luck had nothing to do with it; it was the sheer fact that the guy was being a dipshit. 

And no, I do not consider it superstitious that immediately after that match a few months ago I stopped using my lucky Arsenal mug on game days.  

I was not thinking about any of this at Thursday lunchtime when I decided to run to the Coffee Haus to buy beans.  I was glad that it was not raining, since we have lately experienced rather unusual weather, where it rains for a little bit, then the sun comes out, then it rains again, sometimes multiple times in a row. 

I was just glad to be out on the street, and was walking past a supermarket when I heard (and felt) a splat-splat.  

Realization hit as I glanced down at my chest and saw a medium sized plop of bird poop right on my shirt.  For the second time since I have lived in Germany, I have had the unpleasant (but very funny) experience of getting shit on by a bird. 

"Damn," I thought to myself as I felt for a bandanna that should have been in my back pocket of my jeans.  Of all the times to have just taken a shower and put on fresh jeans (I usually wear my jeans more than once before washing) and forgotten to put a new bandanna in my pocket before heading out...

I looked for a tissue in my jacket pocket, and found one single one left in the packet, which I used to try and wipe the crud off my shirt.  This was a fruitless effort and just made it look like I had been finger painting on myself.  It was a breast shot, so pretty much my entire left pectoral area was a mess of yuck. 

Thinking, "Well this sucks," I debated whether to go on to the bean store, as I was about half way there. As I stood there wondering what to do, I noticed the second splat that had hit my upper thigh, not quite the size of the first splat, but enough to convince me that returning home to attend to things might be the best decision. 

I did feel somewhat fortunate that I had not been looking up at that precise moment or that it wasn't a facial hit (I was using a brand new face mask) but was still not ready to talk about luck.  I went back to my flat, walked in the bathroom and found a cloth to try and wipe of the new art on my shirt, quickly making it worse than the tissue had.  

As angry as I was, I was starting to laugh as I took my t-shirt off and rinsed it in the basin.  It was not Big Bird or an ostrich, but it certainly was not a hummingbird that had (in fairness, probably not deliberately) let loose on me, and I let the water run a little longer to wash the muck down the drain.  Turning my attention to the spot on my jeans, I figured I could do a quick wipe and that would be the end of it.  Again, after another finger painting exercise that just made everything worse, I figured it would be best to remove the jeans.  

This was confirmed when I finally noticed the mother load of shit that had landed on the bottom of my jeans, somehow not managing to get on my boots. Maybe it was lucky that I roll my jeans, as that seemed to have contained the disgusting glop from getting all over my boots and the laces. I left the water running even longer to wash that down the drain, and complimented myself on my ability to carefully remove boots and pants without getting shit everywhere.  

The crisis was over pretty quickly, and I put on new fresh jeans (yep...of course the ones with the button-fly that no longer stays buttoned) and a fresh t-shirt before heading back out to finish my errand. 

The thing about this kind of experience is that I cannot wait to tell someone about it.  I almost told the lady at the coffee place, and later on I was on a conference call where one of the participants started the meeting (in the "hi, everyone, how is your day going?" phase) by telling us that his upstairs neighbors had left their water running in the bathroom, which caused significant damage to his own bathroom.  I elected not to respond with own mishap, perhaps wisely.  After all, how important is a little poo in comparison to a flood inside your flat?

Later on, I did finally get to tell someone, and was reminded that such incidents are said to bring good luck. 

I remain skeptical that it is lucky to be pooped on, but again, at least find thanks that it was not a flock of bully birds looking for targets.  Yes, I have a vivid imagination and have read just every Far Side comic out there, so I know just how gritty such events could be. 

With that, I am going to refill my Arsenal coffee mug (it is not a game day, the season is over), and go outside and look up at the sky and laugh. 

And I might even do it with my mouth open. 

I feel lucky. 

See you out there

bryan

It Was More Than Just a Job

Well, once again, it has been an action packed week full of interesting thoughts, challenges, and fun. 

Last Saturday, right after finishing the weekly post, I learned that my nephew's recently started first job was already coming to an end; waiting tables for the first time in a busy cafe did not work out.  Fortunately, it was kind of a mutual agreement for them to part ways, and that is part of the experience.  

I reminisced about the first job experience with my sister and a few friends during the course of the weekend, and continued my reflection as the week started. 

Briefly, for those readers eager to get an update on how my Goblet Squat Challenge is going, I am pleased to report that I finished this past Monday.  I rewarded myself by taking a few days off from leg workouts, then decided to start a Reverse Lunge Challenge yesterday, thinking myself suitably fitter than ever. 

Despite using dinky weights, I felt like my left butt cheek was about to fall off for most of last evening. That feeling quickly went away when I was awakened at 2am from a horrific bad dream in which I had my right calf muscle cramp up so much that I almost passed out, which was not a good idea considering I was trying to stand up and loosen the muscle. (visit the link: screamingcheek.de/day 2 was so much better/ for further updates on this new initiative.)

Back to the start of the week.  I was standing proudly on my balcony thinking about how strong my legs were feeling and wondering if Jimmy Stewart ever did leg workouts when I noticed a little movement in the adjacent garden.  At first, I thought it was a small animal, but then realized that it was a robotic lawn mower, moving very quietly and slowly across the grass. 

As fascinated as I was, I also felt a pang of sadness.  Perhaps in another decade or so, there will be less opportunities for young guys or girls to mow lawns.  This is how I started earning money, first taking care of our family's lawn, and gradually took on the lawns of several other neighbors.  This was pretty standard for every 13 year old boy in my neighborhood.  Meanwhile, all the girls were busy with babysitting jobs.  I never really questioned this, nor did I think it was particularly sexist.  I think the folks of my parents and grandparents generation tended to deem certain tasks more appropriate for specific genders.  In my case, my sister had the market cornered on babysitting jobs; in several cases I was taking care of the yard where she looked after the kids. 

I did have a fair amount of lawns to mow at the peak of my landscaping career.  It was not always fun to mow in the heat of the day, and it was pretty grubby work.  But the money was decent, and frequently led to additional, albeit tough, jobs like removing shrubs, digging up tree stumps, raking leaves, and all the other outside jobs that home owners start getting tired of doing at some point.  Why not use a dipshit kid to do those things instead of going outside to get all dirty yourself?

Turning 16, as we know, is a pretty big event in life.  I was finishing my first year of high school, had just gotten my drivers license, and was starting to think about ways I could make even more money, in addition to the lawn mowing.  As the school year was coming to a close, summer jobs was a hot conversation topic.  There was always a classmate who was going to work in their dad's office in some cushy job (counting staples or whatever) at the rate of 10 dollars an hour, almost 3 times the average hourly minimum rate.  A certain amount of envy existed here, this was a "dream" job after all, making a lot of money without having to get dirty, without having to do diddly squat, really. It is funny how people react to these kinds of things.  We were all kind of jealous, since we knew that such jobs were few and far between.  More realistic would be some job paying minimum wage.  We dealt with the situation by ensuring that the lucky guy (high earner, thanks to dad) was always first out during dodge ball games in PE Class.  (Many times, it was his own teammates who threw him out, taking particular effort to make sure it was a face hit) 

Trying to find a "cool" summer job was a high priority, and the key word was "cool."  Somehow, everyone wanted the more glamorous of jobs.  I made a beeline to the shopping mall and applied at the record stores, sporting goods shops, and cinemas.  

So did everyone else in my age group.  

That meant that there was incredible competition for any jobs going, and I can only imagine how it was for those employers, all considering a bunch of applicants without any experience. 

To complicate things, I was limited on transportation.  I had a drivers license, but no auto.  Thus, work location needed to be kind of local. 

A guy from my math class, who was kind of a friend, mentioned one day that he worked at a local grocery store, and they were hiring.  Since none of the places I had applied to had contacted me, I decided to go up to the store and apply for a job as a "sacker," the not so glamorous job of putting groceries into the shopping bags at the check out counter of the supermarket. 

I had already resigned myself to minimum wage, but really went for the opportunity because of the guy.  I did not know him well, but figured I might get to know him better at work.  My real goal was to make money, but a friendly face at work would certainly be welcome. 

Somehow I landed a part time job at the store, and once summer vacation started, I started a few shifts per week.  The key word here was "few."  I may have worked a total of 30 hours in the job over about three weeks.  Ironically, I worked only once with my buddy from school.  Then, due to circumstances beyond my control, I had to abruptly quit the job, have surgery on my hip, and went on to spend the next half year on crutches. 

That is a story (although it has been told many times before) that will be told (or re-told) another day, but I really struggled during that time, particularly from a financial perspective.  

Up to that point, my parents had always put the kibosh on working during the school year.  As I was beginning my senior year of high school, hopped up on Who albums (think Baba O'Riley), no money, and a whole lot of pent up anger, not to mention a real need to start building up my leg muscles, I convinced my folks to allow me to seek employment during the fall semester.  I needed to make up for the lost opportunities of the previous year. 

Still limited with location, but no longer interested in anything other than earning money, I headed up to the flagship grocery store that had opened up during the previous summer and applied for a job as a bag boy.  Again. 

I got the job, and was soon working several hours a week.  Initially, they had put me on the work schedule as a full time employee, which required a quiet discussion to get sorted out, as I was still a student with a mother who still had some rules with regard to working Sundays (church and youth activities) as well as getting homework done, etc.  

This job was what I really consider to be my first job; the previous experience was too short (barely a memory) to count.  I kind of knew one of the guys that worked there from school, but soon met other coworkers, several of which were also attending my high school.  True, my school was pretty big, but this was my first experience meeting schoolmates who I had NEVER seen before in the previous two years at the same school.  As the school year went on, I hardly ever saw them at school, but only at work. 

My parents raised me to be diligent and helped me establish a good work ethic, so even though the work was not necessarily tasking, I quickly showed my employers that I was taking the job seriously.  Along the way, I discovered that I was having fun and enjoying sacking groceries, meeting the other employers, and dealing with various customers and shoppers.  

The job came at the right time for me, and I really embraced it.  The money was not great, but I discovered that the more I worked, the less time I had to spend the money, so I had more and more money in my pocket.  The whole grocery store culture was a real eye opener for me, as I working with people from different back grounds and age groups.  Those of us that were still in high school made sure to have as much fun as we could on the job.  Some of the workers were studying in college themselves, thus working only part time.  Others, as I came to realize, were doing this as their full time profession.  

For years, I always considered the job to be simply a means to get me through high school and through the summer before starting college, where I would earn my degree, then go on to bigger and better things.  I never considered myself above any of those employees who were "lifers" at the grocery store, working the lower paying jobs.  True, I had no aspirations to wear a gold blazer and be the store manager, nor did I want to be trapped behind the cash register or behind the counter in the deli. 

It was easier to enjoy the good times and mucking around that comes with being a bag boy.  We had the freedom to help customers (usually women, frequently very attractive) take their shopping to their cars, but we also got to do a bunch of other odd jobs as required.  I took on most all of the tasks with a positive approach.  Okay, cleaning out the dumpster was not so much fun (in fact it was fucking gross), but as I got more tenure, I got to avoid some of the grunt work.  But, even when I was called into action for some of the more yucky work, I still embraced it. 

Making money was cool, but I did not initially realize how many people were paying attention as I went out performing my job.  I simply got on with it.  Thus, I was kind of surprised one day when my supervisor mentioned that management was seeing as me as an exemplary employee.  I enjoyed working with the customers and coworkers, and people noticed.  Obviously supermarkets handle a lot of repeat customers, and being a neighborhood store, I regularly encountered the same wives and mothers (in most cases, as it was during that era) each week as they did the family shopping.  

That senior year of school, I was also involved in the rah rah squad that ran the school mascot (a horse on wheels) up and down the track after a score was made in the football games.  One of the perks of this was getting to be in closer proximity to the cheerleaders and players on the team, the more popular people in the school.  I was not chasing popularity so much, but it was nice to be acknowledged in the hallways at school.  And, these classmates also had parents who shopped at the grocery store, so frequently during the autumn (football season), some random mother (or father) would be at the check out stand as I was sacking their groceries, and they would mention they had seen me the night before at the school game. 

Let me be clear, I was not obtaining celebrity status, but I was a long way from invisible.  And, as I mentioned, I liked dealing with various customers as they did their shopping.  

At the holidays, things got really busy at the store, and I got really speedy at sacking groceries, learning to add a little flair in my technique (think Tom Cruise in Cocktail), and also learning that overfilling a grocery sack just because all of the goods fit does not mean that the customer can actually carry the heavy bag by themselves. 

I learned to laugh when there was a wet clean up needed on a particular aisle, and also learned to be a very competent shopping cart surfer.  

If I thought fall of 1987 was good, spring of 1988 was even better, and I did not yet know how good a summer it would turn out to be.  

The pay raise I received at the beginning of 88 was certainly very welcome, but I kept thinking, I am really enjoying this job.  The supervisors and managers had already been pleading with me to start checking groceries, but I was still reluctant to do so.  Part of this was my fear of handling money, learning produce codes, and the other elements of being a checker, but what I really was liking about being a sacker is that I never had to sit still.  There was always another customer to tend to or a task to be handled. 

A few times, I did get called into emergency action to act as a checker, and I actually felt thrilled when I was doing it, even though I was really anxious about a so many things, like accepting checks, operating the register, etc.  I did so well during those urgent moments that the supervisors almost demanded that I become a checker, but I convinced them that I could be more useful in my role as head sacker. By now, I was training the new sackers, which sounds kind of pointless, but the role had a high turnover, and as I had discovered, a lot of people really do not understand the science (however basic it is) of properly sacking groceries. 

My confidence (and maturity) continued to grow, and I worked more and more hours during the final semester at school.  This allowed me to be in prime position for the best summer shifts, maximizing my work hours around my personal schedule. 

I remember a lot of the faces and some (not all) of the names of my coworkers.  There were some particularly entertaining experiences both at work and also outside of work; getting to hang out with colleagues after our shifts became routine. 

I grew to respect some of the coworkers, especially some of the ones who I never would have met had I not been in the job.  Sure, they came from different backgrounds, and quite a few them had never (and would never) have a collegiate experience.  But as I got to know some of them, I learned of their own perspectives, ambitions, and while, not quite the same as mine, were still equally important.  

Over the years as I do my own shopping, I always look at the various employees at whichever store I happen to be in and think about them.  I tend to have my favorite check out people at my local store here, and wonder if they are having as much fun as I did.  My father is on a first name basis with a lot of people at his local store, and while I do not have quite that same level of relationship (German shoppers are not quite so chatty, nor, as it seems, are the workers), I will keep trying. 

The summer of 88 was a brilliant time for me, and not least of all because I met a couple of life long friends at the job. The experience itself was so priceless, but above all, I never stopped having fun.  

It was this specific thought that came to mind this past week as I thought about my nephew, the first job experiences, and my current boss, who almost always ends each meeting with "have fun at work."

This was a particularly fun week at work for me, and I am discovering that I am starting to have that same mindset again, just like I had in 87-88, where it was all about making it "your store," running up and down the aisles, helping people get the box of cereal off the top shelf, chatting with exceptionally attractive women who came dressed in their sundresses to pick up the deli-trays for their summer afternoon parties, tipping over overloaded carts in the middle of a rainstorm, being in a good mood and enjoying being in a good mood with customers, colleagues, and friends. 

Make it fun. 

So forgive the countless run-on sentences and 80s references from today's post, and think about how much fun it was. If your right calf cramps up, you'll know you read it right. 

see you out there

bryan

 

Random Saturday Thoughts

More and more often I find myself in situations where no one is recognizing or relating to my reference to something from another generation.  I was speaking in a conference call the other week and mentioned a movie from the 1950s, likely my favorite film from that era.  I was attempting to describe my back garden, so hinted at the film "Rear Window," only to see the (thanks to a video call) blank look on my counterpart's face. 

"Uh, that film is sort of on my list of movies I need to see," he stated. 

At that moment, I realized I was making a lot of incorrect assumptions about people: everyone loves Grace Kelly, everyone knows who Grace Kelly was, everyone likes movies, and everyone knows about the 1950s.  Perhaps most important, I recognized that in future I would need to do better at sensing people's age groups; from here on, most of my colleagues and customers will likely be quite a bit younger. 

A few days later, I was watching a program on television which involved some students who were planning a school dance with a theme from the 1950s.  I started thinking about some of the "themed days" we had in high school, where the student council would announce a "team day" or "50s day" or "Army day," where all the students were invited to come dressed accordingly. 

I was never really in to that kind of stuff, but from time to time would participate, if the desire stuck me.  In fairness, I was already wearing college team apparel every so often, and once or twice wore my father's army jacket to school, but that was more of a nod to "Combat Rock," the final Clash album. 

My sister was a few years ahead of me in school, and was more inclined to participate in such events.  She might have actually been on the student council, now that I think about it.  However, she tended to take the more masculine approach to the 50s days, rolled up jeans and white button down oxfords.  This was pretty close to what the guys would wear, also, expect there were more white t-shirts than oxfords.  Of course, one cannot forget that one of the more popular films from that time was Grease, and to this day I think just about every woman born between 1965 and 1975 can not only recite the entire dialog of that film, but can also sing each and every song, along with the choreography.  

What was interesting to me at the time is that on those 50s days at school, only one or two girls actually wore poodle skirts.  In fact, I did not really know what that was until a particularly attractive girl at school (sorry for the cliche, but yes, she was captain of the cheerleaders) wore one on the given day.  

Most of the time on such days, students would raid their parents' closets for suitable stuff to wear.  As we all know, not everyone keeps their clothes for ever and ever; either they grow out of them because of size, or they grow out of them because their fashion tastes change.  Or perhaps the garments were simply worn out, as they were worn so much at the time. 

I suspect that very few girls who actively wore poodle skirts in the 1950s saved them with the idea that one day, when they became mothers, their daughters might need to borrow the outfit for a school function some 25 or 30 years later. 

I totally understand that.  It never even occurred to me to save all my Star Wars action figures and their packaging so that one day I could sell the vintage toys and make a lot of money.  Instead, I played with the stuff, and that is why no one wants my Han Solo that is missing a hand or my C3PO that no longer has a head.  

But I digress. 

Back in the 1980s in high school, I never asked my mother if she had ever had a poodle skirt, though that likely was more of a relevant topic for my sister to follow up on.  But, as I said, my sister tended to wear the mid calf jeans and over-sized oxford, borrowed from my father's closet. 

As I was developing my own style later on in high school, I actually was regularly wearing chucks and rolled up jeans, along with shirts with the sleeves rolled up.  One evening I was a friend's house eating dinner with their family, when the father commented that he used to wear the same thing when he was in high school, back in the 50s. 

I did not take that as a compliment, nor did I did take it as an insult.  I just continued developing my own style, which certainly takes some influence from previous generations, though more from music, as those who know me from my boots, jeans, t-shirts, and leather jackets can attest to. 

Almost immediately after I watched the tv program about the school dance, I got a message from a friend who mentioned that some kids of some friends of theirs had recently done an 80s themed event, a video or something. 

That got me to thinking about what the recent generations have been doing in high school.  If those of us born in the late 60s/early 70s had "50s day," did the kids born in the 80s and 90s have "70s day?"

My own nephew was born in 2002 and graduated from an American high school last year.  During his time there, I never heard any mention of him having any "themed days" at school, let along an "80s day" or "90s day."

Come to think of it, I never heard my parents talking about having a "30s day" or something when they were in school, either.  (That probably would have been a pretty bleak day at school, had they done so, considering the events of that era.)

Although my style really has not changed in the past 30 years, I am not sure how I would react if some teenager came up to me and asked if they could borrow what I am wearing so that they could participate in a theme day at school.  The closest I even came to this was one day last summer, when a girl I know walked by wearing a jacket with a Joy Division logo on the back.  I was wearing a Joy Division t-shirt at the time, and we got to talking a little bit about the music.  The girl is in her early 20s, and since she already had the apparel, there was no chance of her asking me for a loan of my clothes.  What was rather positive is that the girl liked the music, and I will one day write a post about how people from all ages who like different genres of music.  

Whether we choose to dress as influenced by our music tastes is always a personal decision.  Most of the time.  I knew a guy in college who dressed as a typical skater for the first 3 semesters of school.  Then, spring semester of my sophomore year, just after Christmas break, he returned to campus wearing khaki pants and starched button down shirts of various colors.  It raised a few eyebrows, and eventually the guy allowed that his parents had requested (demanded) that he change his attire.  Thankfully, he never stopped hanging with his skater friends, nor did he stop listening to the music. 

My point here? Nothing really, other than I will continue to wear whatever I want, listen to whatever I want, and above all, continue to watch films with Grace Kelly.  If you want to do the same and wear parachute pants to boot, feel free to do so.  But no, you cannot borrow my houndstooth pants.

see you out there

bryan

Picking My Pouty Self Up

If someone were to ask me how my week went, I would probably make a bit of a joke about it and say that it was "not the best" or "it could have been better," or some other expression that kind of down plays the past few days.  We always are a little careful with comparisons, right?  A student who performed poorly on a test in school might make the statement "I had a shit week," or a wannabe on-line influencer that breaks a freshly lacquered fingernail just before her show might wail, "oh my gosh the world is ending."

To be clear, none of that happened to me.  

And, in comparison to other countries, cultures, or individuals, my week would probably rank very low on the significant scale.  But it is relative, and we must not forget that.  

I do not want to think that I jinxed myself in any way, but I started Monday morning by exclaiming, "it is a new month, and it is the start of a good new week."  Actually, Monday did start off okay.  I finished my first week of the Goblet Squat 21 day challenge (find out more about the workout at this link here: saturdaymorningsarcasm.com) and was feeling stronger than ever.  

The work day was semi-productive (more on that in a moment), and as I started making dinner for myself, I decided to call my grandmother.  We had a delightful conversation about various things, and I just felt pretty fuzzy after we spoke for 15 minutes.  I cherish these brief moments when I can speak with her; I am very fortunate that she is still mentally fit and finally herself able to move about with a bit less restriction.  "Bryan, I sure hope that Germany get their act together with the vaccinations soon.  Now, I have to go play bridge.  Bye."  Awesome words from an awesome lady. 

Tuesday should have been a good day, since my fuzzy Grandmother feelings regularly buoy me through.  Unfortunately, I found myself really angry and distracted for no real reason in particular, other than the elephant walking around in my apartment.  Productivity was really low, motivation was lacking, and looking back, it was probably poor judgement on my side to immediately take the language assessment test that I was notified of late in the work day.  My company offers language courses, and, having a pretty noticeable non-German name, I was on the distribution list from the personnel development department. 

Funny, I am fairly certain about my language level, and recognize both my desire and my need to improve.  Last year during my idle time I had researched various online courses to take, but kind of procrastinated, and then suddenly was starting back to work.  

I look forward to this opportunity to engage with an instructor again, but like I said, I first had to take the assessment test:  45 minutes of online/multiple choice stuff.  The results were immediate, and I scored almost EXACTLY where I expected to, and was still disappointed.  I even can remember the questions where I made my errors.  

Strange how my expectations were met, but it did not feel that great.  

I could sense trouble brewing.  Obviously several things are bugging me right now, and it was quickly becoming a little too much.  I sat listlessly watching some film on Tuesday evening, then came across the animated version of Curious George, the film from 15 years ago with Will F playing the man in the yellow hat.  

A handful of people know that Curious George happens to be my all time favorite.  I loved the books as a child, and as stuffed animals go, my 2 foot tall George was incredibly loved.  Amazingly enough, he survives to this day; he became my nephew's buddy back in 2002 when Daniel was born.  

There is a lot of sentiment and emotion associated with Curious George, and back when the movie came out, I elected not to see it.  Until Tuesday night.  

Watching the movie simply warmed my heart.  I found the film pretty good, but the memories were even better.  Back when I was reading the books, I knew that it was a husband and wife team who authored and illustrated, but I did not realize that they were German.  During my discovery of this information the following morning, I also realized why no one in Germany knew who the hell I was referencing when I mention Curious George.  As a tough guy who can squat goblets with the best of them, it takes a real man to stand up and admit that stuffed animals and the names of Sesame Street characters are discussion topics with various friends in Frankfurt.  

Had I been introduced to Curious George as Coco (as he is known to German children, young and old), I am not sure I would have been as enthralled.  I will never really know the answer to that question, but that is just fine. 

Despite the fuzzies I was feeling, Wednesday proved to be another tough day.  During a rather positive discussion with a potential customer, I found myself looking at the negative.  Why were they flopping around so much?  Had they not reviewed our proposal thoroughly?  Why were they not asking more questions?  

If this customer chooses to go forward with us, it will effectively the first "win" that I have been involved with in my new role.  All of that is a good thing, but I was still stuck on less positive aspects, due to my lousy mood.  

My mood impacted my piano playing, too.  I had to force myself to sit down and play, and nothing came naturally.  My thoughts were all over the place, with an extra helping of the blahs.  I wisely lowered the volume of the instrument (an advantage of the digital age), as there was no sense in pissing off the neighbors.  

Thursday was the real low point of the week.  Work was a complete write off; I found myself totally unable to concentrate, and my thoughts just seemed to be getting darker and darker.  I had a chat with my father, our first time to skype since the previous weekend.  That conversation did little to improve my mood, as I got irritated listening to him complain about how one of the first "finally able to worship again in person" services had a few hiccups.  Why nit pick about something like that instead of simply being grateful to get back together after 14 months?

I made myself some tortilla soup on Thursday evening, as we are still quite chilly in Frankfurt.  I put in extra jalapeño, and managed to consume the whole pot while I watched a coming of age film, my way of passing the time before the Arsenal match.  

The match did not go well, but I half way expected it.  Erik had written in a previous text message exchange, "I hope I do not go to bed in a bad mood," which was very much a feeling I could relate to.  Although I no longer get so wound up when my team loses, it is not always so easy to simply laugh it off.  

To be fair, the loss did not worsen my mood as I went to bed that night.  

On Friday morning, I woke up asking myself, "had Arsenal won their game, would have I still dreamt about Bo and Uncle Jesse?"

Yep, that is right.  I dreamed that I was driving around with one Duke and his uncle.  Tom Wopat was nowhere to be found, and what I did find particularly interesting is that the car showed no signs of a confederate flag.  In fact, it was neutral in color, kind of like it had just been primed for a paint job.  The fact there was some containers of blue paint in the garage (when we all got in to drive around and do donuts) suggest that we were not even in the deep south.  

For the better part of Friday, I could not feel my lips, thanks to my spicy soup from the previous evening, but I was rather thankful that my work day was more productive.  I was feeling relief towards the end of the day, not only due to the sensation returning, but also because the week was finishing.  

All things considered, it was not that bad of a week, but I just could not kick the lousy mood.  I remembered that it is okay to have a bad day or a bad week, or even a bad year.  Sometimes those things will happen.  Accept it, and move on.  

Take it as it comes, in other words. 

I must say, that my coffee tasted better this morning.  Whether that is due to me changing out the water filter in the tank, or the fact that I am a super barista is unclear, but I am taking it as a step in the right direction. 

I am one of those guys who tend to get irritated by overly perky people who say things like, "turn that frown upside down."  Part of me wants to throw a piping hot cup of coffee in their face.  

But that would be a waste of a good coffee.  More importantly, I know better.  

That being said, thinking about it did turn my frown into a smile. 

So it is Saturday, I am smiling, and I am taking it as it comes.  

see you out there

bryan

Measuring Leagues, Super Calculating, and a Cool Sountrack

So, to start off, today´s post has a soundtrack.  For the best experience, do not use headphones and turn the volume up.  Youtube has the links to these albums, or otherwise pull them out of your own collection. 

First off, Cheap Trick  - Dream Police

Second up, The Old 97s - Fight Songs

Third, Funland  - Funland Band

And then, back to Cheap Trick for a final song on the set list - Surrender

When "Dream Police" came out, I was starting to actively listen to music, but buying records was kind of out of my budget.  My allowance was on the very low side, and I was still playing with matchbox and hot wheels cars; all my money went for them.  This was a time when 5 dollars was a really big deal for me, a 9 year old.  An album cost around 9 or 10 dollars back then.  In my world, a double big deal.  

The reason Cheap Trick is involved in the post today is because a friend of mine who I regularly trade music tips with sent me a link to their latest single, which came out this past January.  I had no idea that the band were still active; I had not listened to them in probably 35 years, though I do enjoy the odd cover from time to time.  

When T sent me the link to the latest single, I immediately thought about the Dream Police album, and remembered the price tag staring at me from the record sleeve.  Way out of my price range at that time.  

As I listened to the old album, I thought about how I calculate things and my ways of measuring, then and now.  It all related to value, and to some extent, my values. 

During those brief years when I was buying records, between the ages of 10 and 12 or 13, I was always reluctant to hand over 10 bucks for an album where I only liked one or two songs.  I could not justify spending so much money.  The average LP had 4, maybe 5 songs per side.  If I only liked 2 songs and paid 10 bucks, the record cost me 5 bucks per song.  In my world, that did not add up. 

Let us not forget my age at the time.  I was still measuring the days before Christmas, a birthday, or an upcoming vacation (from vacation) by counting the number of "sleeps" remaining.  (On the 23rd of December, for example, there were 2 more sleeps before Christmas).  Also at this time, I attended a silent auction at our church and managed to get a basketball, which I had been wanting.  My father quietly came up to me and, with only a hint of disappointment in his voice, showed me that my winning bid was 3 dollars more than the retail value of the basketball itself.  That was a valuable lesson. 

Later on in the driveway as I shot baskets with my new ball, I realized that I still really wanted the ball, but struggled to compute the additional money I had given for it.  That money might have gone for another matchbox car or something.  I would just have to pay more attention in the future. 

For the next years, money burned a hole in my pocket, and my parents regularly reminded me of this.  Most of my money went for music, cassettes, then CDs, then, after I was out of college, for shows, more CDs, and beer.  

It is no surprise that was I heavily in debt by my early 20s, and that took the rest of the decade before I got that under control.  That being said, it was a time when I absolutely did what I wanted to do.  A couple of things worked in my favor in those days.  First, I was employed.  I was not earning a lot, but I was earning, and my living expenses were not huge.  Second, everyone else at the time was in the same boat.  We were all struggling financially, but because everyone was trying to keep the costs down, the average show cost 5 or 6 bucks at the door, and bottles of beer at the show were maybe 2 or 3 bucks. I was drinking premium beers, already running 4 or 5 bucks, but well worth it.  

If you did it right, a night at the rock club might cost 20-25 bucks.  My issue was that I was at the rock club a few times a week, and on those days when I was not at the club, I was at the pub.  Thus, my cash outflow was several hundred dollars per month.  

And it was worth it. 

Among others, I became a huge follower of Funland, which was the current band of a guy who I had first seen play when I started going to concerts back in high school.  The music scene was pretty great, and the musicians were just as broke as we were.  I regularly went out with friends and colleagues from work, and one coworker took me to see the Old 97s, her favorite.  The Old 97s were just as active on the scene as Funland, sometimes sharing a double bill.  They always played the local festivals, and just about every weekend, and sometimes even during the week.  I tried to see all of the shows.  If no else wanted to go (because of finances or some other obligation), I went on my own.  The music was too important.  Why let being in the red stand in my way?

Back then, I approached it as a cash flow issue.  I did not bother to count the number of beers so much as counted how much money I would probably spend during the evening.  Of course, I forgot about things like paying for parking (when we could not find a deserted alley or lot) or the late night runs to some breakfast place for a bit more hoopla after the show.   

Time was all about waiting for the next show. (Only 3 more sleeps until they play again!)  Or visiting the pub, which was not lost time, but time well spent.  

1996 marked the first season of major league soccer, and Dallas had a team.  Those of us who were playing, or were fans, or at least fans of going out to the ball game quickly decided to go to all the home games.  We calculated the distance from the pub to the stadium, which amounted to about 15 minutes if you took the back streets.  Because we knew the area so well, we had tricks for parking and speedy coming and going.  In short, it was not out of the question for us to be sitting in the pub at 7.05 on an evening, then speed over and be in our seats for the 7.30 kickoff.  In 25 minutes we got to the stadium, bought tickets (which were ridiculously inexpensive in comparison to professional basketball or American football), got beers at the concession stand, and got to our seats.  

By now, you should have finished with DP, and are possibly half way through Fight Songs.  Try and keep up. 

As the MLS season was coming to an end, I moved to the Boston area, kind of abruptly.  One of the shocks I had (besides simply up and leaving Dallas) was the cost of an apartment in Massachusetts.  I have told this story countless times, but basically, what I paid  for in rent from 1996-1998 for a studio apartment is almost identical to what I am paying today in Frankfurt.  I will come back to that significant point in a minute. 

I applied a similar approach to measuring my costs, but suddenly everything was more expensive, and further away.  For the next two years, I needed 17 minutes from my apartment to get to Central Square (only breaking one or two speed limits), find parking, and get to the pub, only to have to pay a couple of extra bucks per pint.  

Actually, the x factor was finding parking.  I had no real issue driving further to get to club or a pub.  Hell, going to the MLS game was a trip to Foxboro, which was about 45 minutes away from Boston (with traffic...days).  But I loved it all.  Regarding parking, having to actually pay for it in Boston was a bit irritating, but not as irritating as trying to find a vacant spot in the first place. 

I learned to prepare and plan ahead, sometimes leaving 3 hours early before the start of a show, just so I could make sure I had a parking spot.  This had a knock on effect, as I frequently found myself having beers at the bar while the staff were still arriving for the evening shift; the soundchecks had not even started yet.  

This all took a little hit on my finances.  The costs of a night out increased, as did the beer intake. 

But the shows continued to be relatively inexpensive (thanks to Boston having a lot of students living on the edge), especially if it was a local show. 

I can claim a small piece of trivia, as I was the one Texan (as far as I remember) in the club the night the Old 97s came to play.  That was a wonderful night, and I got to share a beer or two with the band, who were grateful for an appreciative fan.  They were not quite yet the stars that they would soon become. 

This is where I explain that, in response to the Cheap Trick single my buddy shared with me, I responded with the Funland album, making a comparison that Funland played pretty lively shows.  As he was checking them out, he came across the Old 97s (which happens when you do a search on YT...all the suggestions pop up) and asked me about them.  Of course, I got to retell all the stories of driving to Denton late at night to see them play a headline show, or just think about "Big Brown Eyes."

Sadly, while I was in Boston, Funland came to the end of their run.  I was so sorry to miss their final show in Dallas.  That was an era for me that is defined by the name of the band.  It was all fun, and totally worth the price of admission to the funpark, despite the amount of debt I was in. 

That was not the perfect time to have to replace the brakes and the air conditioning on my Volkswagen.  No one ever remembers how much repairs might cost when they purchase an automobile, or a computer, or a mobile, come to that.  But I did what I had to do, and made note of what not to forget in the future. 

Ultimately, after replacing the air conditioning on my car twice more in the next 7 years (Texas summers, eh?) I resolved the issue by moving out of the country.  For computer and phone repair, I indirectly avoided those costs by going to work in the industry, but it does not escape me that for the last 25 years as I have been working in repair logistics, I have never experienced a computer or mobile failure, self induced or not.  Though for the 25th time, I almost spilled a cappuccino on my laptop as I write this.  

Here in the present, I do still count sleeps before some significant upcoming event, but perhaps not so much as before.  Last week, I spent 20 euro watching one Arsenal match (only one match this month) and felt like I overpaid.  I think I am still spending 20 euro a month on a gym membership that I have not used in probably two years.  I remind myself that this is perfectly fine as I do my exercises in my living room; I know too many people that hold a membership but never work out, which is not my case. 

In a minute, I am going to pay some bills.  My living costs are not too terribly different from 25 years ago (give or take an internet connection), but thanks to a salary that is considerably higher, I never really think too much about it.  I got myself out of debt 20 years ago, and do a fair job of keeping my expenses realistic.  My annual Bahn card has just been renewed, but I only need four trips for it to pay for itself.  Last year was a little "knapp," but my trips to Sömmerda at the start of the year more than covered those costs.  It is certainly better than having to plan for gasoline and a brake job. 

Besides the Bahn card, I need to pay the dentist, and the AMEX bill, which was a little higher this month due to some online purchases that I needed (but cannot exactly remember).  And, in a few days, I will receive the cleaning products that I ordered after the party last week.  I probably will have enough stuff to last me a year, so the outlay will be covered during the upcoming months.  

My inventory and consumption management tends to be calculated in similar fashion, using hours, days and months.  I am drinking a lot of water these days, with a targeted amount of maybe 4 liters consumed each day.  I try not to count the trips down the hall, but sometimes use it as a gauge.  In fact, I will just step away for a minute while you check progress on where you are with the Funland album; should be on the second half by now, unless you have rewound to listen to a couple of songs a second time. (I know, right? Really good stuff)

I am back, and will start wrapping things up.  The water consumption is the right thing to do, and I am proud of the accomplishment.  In contrast, my beer consumption amounts to about half a beer per month for the past 6 months.  That is a far cry from 25 years ago, when I probably had 3 beers before the first set was completed at a show.  

Times change, and sometimes our values change, too.   My decisions and my economics are mine.  I think of all the times I paid a small cover charge to see a show, and came away thinking, that was fantastic.  Years later I paid 150 or so to see the Who play, and that was also an incredible experience, albeit a hell of a lot more expensive.  

I once paid a premium to see an Arsenal match at Highbury, and while I was fortunate to be financially able to do it, I would probably have paid even more, had it been necessary.  It was so worth it. 

But in the same breath, I am always quick to stand up against selling out, which is precisely what happened with the poor decision makers who thought a super league would be such a good idea.  Why establish an elite league only for financial gain?  Without giving a thought or consideration to the people who actually value the sport. 

The issue has already been resolved, though the fall out will linger.  I won't comment any further on the matter; I am just glad that the fans were heard.  

But it was certainly on my mind as I thought about the value of things, and how I calculate life.  

If memory serves me correctly, Funland played a cover of the Cheap Trick song from time to time.  Sadly, I cannot confirm this, and I do not even think I have a recording of it.  But I can see it, and I can hear it.  

"Surrender, but don't give yourself away...we're all all right."

We're all all right.

see you out there

bryan