Deciding When to Pump

I remember that Christmas as a teenager, when I received a book that I asked for: "Arnold's Bodybuilding for Men." 

I had just developed an interest in weight-lifting, and someone (I no longer remember their name) told me that this was the book of all books; the perfect way to get started.  Why not learn from one of the best, right?  The book detailed all the exercises, provided photos so as to understand the proper form, and was simply a well loved book in my library. 

This was a significant point for me, as it helped me start a fitness routine that I have maintained ever since. 

As I went through high school,  there was a certain intimidation factor that involved the so called "jocks," which for the most part meant the guys that played American football, though basketball came into play, too.  Those guys tended to commandeer the weight room, and tended to look down on anyone who was not part of their group.  

For me, this did not prove to me too much of an issue.  I already disliked a lot of people at school, particularly anyone in a "click," and truth be told, I had no need of the school weight room, as I was quietly investing in my own equipment at home. 

By the time of high school graduation, I was training regularly at home, using my own weights, of which I had carefully purchased at a local fitness store.  I say carefully, because weights are not inexpensive, and as I was getting stronger, I was having to invest in more iron plates.  Doing this on a fixed budget was a bit tricky, but thankfully I was working at the local supermarket, so had regular pocket money. 

Around this time, I discovered a monthly magazine called "Muscle and Fitness," and started buying this regularly.  It was heavy on glossy photos of bodybuilders who (frequently) were pretty souped up with various supplements. 

What I found, though, was that there was some science and intelligence in many of the articles.  I learned a whole lot more about nutrition and the finer points of anatomy and physiology.  I never felt inclined to jump on the steroid kick, and truth be told, already realized that there was no way I was ever going to reach the size of many of the bodybuilders shown in the magazine.  

In college, I initially felt intimated by the "jocks," but also realized that I actually had more knowledge about the weight room than many of the other guys in there.  Freshman year, I went in the gym one afternoon, and encountered some guys that I knew from the dorms.  They were all playing basketball, and thought pretty highly of themselves.  I was on my own, because I have never felt the need to have a workout buddy, and just got on with things. 

Within a few minutes, one or two of the guys acknowledged that I seemed to know what I was doing, and furthermore, was lifting a lot heavier than they were able to. 

It is somewhat sad that egos play such a big part in the lives of males, but sometimes you just have to accept it, and decide how you want to stick to your guns, and just get on with things. 

And that is what I did. 

As a member of the tennis team, I was one of the few that was actively working out with weights.  Sure, I was far from the best tennis player, but I was sure as shit stronger than they were.  But it was relative, and I did not really care one way or the other what the other guys did. 

Throughout college, I continued my workouts, and frequently friends would join me.  I recognized that some of them just needed a workout buddy, and others did it just because we were friends and we did stuff together.  Still, I stuck to my guns and continued my routines on my own schedule.  

And after college?  I kept right on working out.  I used the weight room at my apartment complex as often as I could, both in Dallas and in Massachusetts.  When I returned to Dallas at the end of the 90s, I dragged some of my old barbells over to Little Goliad, but quickly realized that I needed more equipment, so joined the 24 hour gym down the street. 

This was my first experience in a setting that was almost as much about socializing as it was about fitness.  True, the gym was coed, and combine a bunch of guys with big egos (regardless of their size or muscular shape) and a bunch of girls who were particularly interested in getting picked up, and you get a real interesting situation.  But, if you look closely, as I did, you did recognize that there were a fair share of men and women there just to get their exercises done.  They, too, were just as frustrated by the people who spent more time looking at themselves in the mirror, or posing on a machine, or simply acting like a dipshit. 

Throughout this time, I continued reading M&F magazine, and noticed that the publication was evolving.  There were more and more interesting articles with information and studies that showed, that proved how effective various techniques really were.  

I utilize a lot of these techniques, and welcomed the new bits of information.   I regularly changed up my routines, training splits, and muscle confusion tactics.  I had learned all of this from the get go back when I first read Arnold's book, and the facts continue to prove why this all works. 

For a brief time after I moved to Spain, I continued reading M&F Español, but once I got to Germany, I kind of stopped picking up a monthly copy of the magazine.   Part of this was due to the gym I was using.  

One of the things I have always done in gyms is pay attention to who is there, and how they are training.  If you are serious about training, then you tend to notice the other people who are equally serious.  And that habit tends to go in both directions.  Once or twice when I was in the gym in Dallas, someone might come up to me and ask me about an exercise I was doing.  And visa versa.  I was able to pick up on new exercises, new techniques that were coming from advances in creativity and technology. 

This happened to me in Spain, and again in Germany. 

Meanwhile, as I was getting older, my priorities were changing.  The ultimate goal remained the same, but you have to bring that into context.  Between the age of 18 and 30, I was still regularly shooting for a "max," like max bench press, squat, or whatever. 

As I reached my forties and fifties, it was more about maintaining size and strength, but also adapting to the changes that come with aging. 

Then, around 5 years ago, I experienced some issues with my back, which resulted in me visiting a physical therapist.  The guy was knowledgeable, and while I am thankful for his treatment, guidance, and advice, I took one of his points a little too seriously.  At one point, he told me that a back could take 18 months to recover, and that I should avoid lifting weights during that time. 

That was a real challenge for me, because of all of what I have just written.  I was not used to NOT working out, and unfortunately, I allowed myself to believe that I could further injure myself if I were to lift weights during this time.  

I will skip on through to a few years later, when I got myself back on to a no fear training routine, which involved starting slow and working my way back up.  

Since the beginning, I keep a journal of my exercise routines, so I can document reps, sets, weight, and all the things needed to measure progress.  And the best way to measure the results is by listening to the body in the first place.  

A few years ago, I purchased some adjustable dumbbells for home use, and since then have not been back to my fitness studio.  I finally terminated my membership there late last year, and meanwhile have made really good use of my investment of the dumbbells.  They are more than sufficient for the type of exercising I need to be doing.  Maxing out is a thing of the past. 

Pandemic or not, since I have been working from home for so many years, I take advantage of the  flexibility, and can do my daily training whenever there is a break in the action of work.  

For new information and variety, I found a few sources on the internet about workouts, training ideas, etc.  Indeed, many of the dipshits that I used to see in the gym have helped develop a constant flood of people with YT channels that are always the experts on exercise.  As entertaining as that may be, I found myself regularly frustrated by the various floods of misinformation.  And there is only so much time you really should allow yourself to watch someone who is wearing a t-shirt 2 sizes too small talk about pumping up.  

I finally found a source that I could connect with, a regular guy who spent a lot of time explaining about the science of working out, then would go on to show clearly how to perform various exercises.  This is kind of an advantage, and is better than the ways of old, when I had to learn about form by a written description.  In fairness, many of the M&F articles did a really good job of describing how to perform an exercise, but sometimes seeing the actual performance helps the brain. 

Unfortunately, there was a bit of a scandal last year when some of the other YTers who were touting their own channels tried to poke holes in my source channel, on the grounds that the guy was not actually lifting the amount of weight that he said he was. 

Funny how the egos never seem to go away, eh?

For me, I learned from the very beginning the importance of form, holding the ego in check, and understanding how the body works, particularly with regard to all the techniques associated with building muscle.   I am proud of the discipline I have held, even while being able to laugh at my own habits.  I never wanted to socialize at the gym, because that would cut into pub time, for example.  Working out with great frequency means that I can (should I decide to) eat cheese fries as often as I want.  And I tend to want to eat cheese fries often.  (sorry, I dreamed about Snuffer's last night)

One morning this past week, I woke up with a feeling that perhaps I should take a body break for the day, and simply skip the exercises.  I thought about it while I was making my first coffee of the day, and in the end, embraced the philosophy "listen to the body," and simply took the day off from training. 

It was the prudent thing to do, and my body really appreciated it.  

The next morning, I was right back on track, and continuing on my way. 

So, I will close off this ramble, and get cracking. 

Today is goblet squat and back day.  

see you out there

Bryan

Just Letting the Music Shuffle

 I was rummaging through a drawerful of old electronics the other week when I came across my old ipod.  It was not was I was immediately looking for, but I still pulled it out, thinking I might put it back into action.  The trouble was, I did not find the cable needed to connect it to my laptop. 

Each drawer in the bureau was already too full, and was a little intimidating.  Long story short, I had limited time to continue looking for the cable, so added the task to my to-do list, and went on about my business. 

Then, two weeks ago, I rallied myself and did a bit of clean up in the bureau.  Only a bit, mind you, because my heart was not really in it; I just wanted to get a little of the junk out.  Things took a little longer, but I eventually found the yellowing ipod cable, and connected the device to my laptop. 

As much as I love music, I am not listening as avidly as I used to in years past.  And, in those moments where I have wanted to sit down and listen, I have tended to go to a streaming web site, where I can immediately hear the artist, the song, or the album that I want to. 

For starters, I was pleased that my device was still working; I had heard that an ancient ipod may no longer be compatible with newer laptop operating systems.  I did have to download itunes onto my computer, and within a few minutes had my full ipod collection on display:  28.6 days of music for my listening pleasure. 

Over 30 years ago, halfway through my college career, I purchased my first 5 CD changer, and developed a really annoying habit of putting the setting on shuffle, then proceeding to use the remote to advance to the next track.  Five CDs with an average of eight tracks each gave me about forty total songs.  The problem was, I tended to be finicky, and never listened to one track all the way through.  I just could not settle on what I wanted to hear. 

A few friends made the odd comment about this, but I still found it difficult to break the habit. 

40 tracks at average 3 minutes each amounts to about 2 hours of material.  I could scan through it in 5 minutes. 

28.6 days?  With a calculator we can quickly determine the exact amount of minutes, but for the sake of this post, let us just say shitloads. 

The first Saturday morning I listened to my tunes from my ipod, I spent too much time clicking my mouse to advance to the next song instead of simply listening to what was playing.  I was skipping 20 songs, then got to the track I wanted to hear at that given moment, then repeated the exercise, for most of the day.  Old habits can certainly be difficult to break.

Last Saturday was very similar.  Sometimes you need a certain song to serve as the soundtrack for the blog post, and considering the topic from last week, some might find it unusual that it was written with songs from the 4-Skins, Minor Threat, and Thrice all playing in the background.  With a bit of Chopin thrown in for good measure.

This week, I decided to just take things as they came, and allow my ipod to just shuffle along.  It took some effort on my part not to skip to another track, but with one exception, I stayed true, and just let things play. 

I made the one exception because I did not think it very fitting to listen to a Christmas song sung by Diana Ross.  Certainly not when I was enjoying one of the first springlike days we are experiencing in Frankfurt. 

So, my Saturday and Sunday this weekend have been filled with a variety (if not eyebrow raising) of music from a wide selection:  Kate Nash, followed by Ministry, followed by Pete Townshend, followed by a bootleg track I bought at a local show 25 years ago by some artist whose name I can no longer remember. 

And it has been great.  

I am fortunate that good friends have shared great music with me through the years, and diversity is something that I appreciate all the more.  I like Bad Religion quite a bit, but I can no longer listen to their entire catalog in one sitting.  

Perhaps my neighbors might have found the playlist a little herky-jerky, but I would argue that we are going through some pretty herky-jerky times right now, so why not?

From Stiff Little Fingers to Skinny Puppy, Saint Etienne to an electronica cover of "Ain't Talkin About Love," Dubstar to tons of Movida, a bit of Skunk Anansie, and yeah, even the odd Christmas song.  

It just makes sense. 

See you out there

Bryan 

Keeping my Königin in Check, and Picking Nits

Several years ago during a conversation with my father, he commented about how much he enjoyed the film, "Bohemian Rhapsody."  

This came as a great surprise to me; neither of my parents had ever really expressed any interest in popular music that was prevalent in the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s.  Like most people in their generation, their music tastes developed earlier in their lives, and after college, never really developed further. 

Once, after going to one of their pops concerts that the local symphony performed each month, my mom asked me if I knew who Rod Stewart was, as he had spent the evening crooning to the audience, accompanied by the DSO.  "Sure, I know him," I responded to my mom's question, relating that one could not help growing up in the 70s and 80s without having heard his hits. 

I was not particularly a fan of Mr Stewart, but I am a fan of Queen. 

Hence the curiosity about how my father enjoyed the film so much.  One of the first records I bought was News of the World, an album that leads off with two of the most recognizable songs in the, erm, world. 

Timing has a lot to do with it, but 7 year olds are pretty impressionable.  The whole school was pretty much spent stomping and clapping to "We Will Rock You," and for any and all sporting events, whether it be local soccer league for the under-8s, or any collegiate or professional event, regardless of the sport, we (sometimes just one person, sometimes many) would launch into a rousing chorus of  "We Are the Champions." 

And my father hated that record.  At the time, I was carefully spending my small pocket allowance on only really important things.  Playing a record on the home stereo system meant that everyone in the household had to listen, including my father, who always had something negative to say about it. 

A few years later, "Another One Bites the Dust," was released, and my father disliked that song even more.  Meanwhile, all of us finishing up 5th and 6th grade had a new thing to shout on the playground. 

My music tastes continued developing as I got more exposure to various genres, and suddenly, David Bowie produced a single with Queen.  Mr. Bowie was another musician that had already captured my interest, but a couple of years later, his album "Let's Dance," really had everyone in junior high talking.  

Then, a few years later, came Live Aid.  I actually took my final exam in drivers education on that Saturday morning.  Everyone sat that exam with jitters about the test, and all the while were thinking about the concert being shown on live TV.  I was rolling tape the whole time, and as soon as I finished the test, raced home (on my bike) and parked myself in front of the family television to watch history.  

I got home in time to catch, among others, the performance by Queen, and by David Bowie.  

I still get goose bumps when thinking about that day.  

By this time, my music tastes were pretty diverse, and pretty well documented.  While I was no longer avidly listening to Queen, they were never too far off my radar.  They did the soundtrack for Highlander, a film I really enjoyed, particularly for the music. 

Suddenly, I was in college, and spent my share of time sitting around listening to music with my friends.  Once people started living off campus, we regularly gathered at someone's house, to listen to music, drink beer, and stare at MTV.  

In November 1991, a few of us were at a friend's house when the broadcast was interrupted.  Freddie Mercury had died.  

I felt devastated, and the emotions were flowing as I jumped out of my seat, not knowing what to do. 

Several friends were also there, one of which jumped up with me.  Apparently, as I was reminded a couple of days later by another friend who was also present (and had found the incident slightly humorous, just the way it played out) I turned to the guy and shouted, "Sit down, you ain't no Queen fan!"

That is probably the first time in my life I used improper grammar, and for the life of me still do not know why I lashed out at the guy.  

I choose to think that it was simply because I was overwhelmed with grief; a great performer had died ahead of his time.  And he had had such an influence on the music I had been listening to over the past 15 years.  

Recently, Pablo shared access to his film library, and as I scrolled through the selection, I saw "Bohemian Rhapsody" and flagged it as something I would like to watch during the next weekend. 

When the movie first came out, I did not feel inclined to rush off and see it.  Instead, I figured I would just check it out once the time was right.  I knew it had won some awards, and had received positive reviews, not least of all from my father.  

So, I watched the film, and was disappointed. 

I liked the casting, once I got over the fact that the guy from Midsomer Murders played Brian May.  The overall story was fine, as movie plots go. 

What bugged me, however, was the artistic license used in the film.  I know that this is a bit unfair on my part, especially as I generally support such use in various works. 

I think I was a little too persnickety when it came to the sequence of events in the film, and this really hindered my appreciation for the film.  The music (no surprise) was great, and I have to think that had I never heard of the band or its music before, I would have enjoyed the film a lot more. 

But, just as it is totally acceptable that I have my own opinion about the film, I respect that the movie makers simply made a movie, and a pretty good one at that. 

With that, I am going to go ride my bicycle (because I want to).  No Pressure. 

see you out there

Bryan

A Busy Week of Being Unproductive

 I was really glad when Friday afternoon came around yesterday, as it just was not a great week.  Nothing seemed to be clicking along, and it was all kind of disjointed, as sometimes happens.  True, the world events are proving to be a very sad distraction, but besides that, I just could not seem to get anything done.  

Rather than get bogged down on all the things that created frustration, I have acknowledged them and am preferring to find those bits of humor that helped me get through. 

For example, I was experimenting with a new app on my television, one that enabled me to participate in "transatlantic streaming."  I normally pride myself on being resourceful to get these things working, but I was stuck for several days, unable to access the library.  In the end, it was a rather simple thing, and once I made the adjustment on the setting, I was back on track.  Finally. 

No sooner had I got the app working, I got registered for some online classes, but due to lack of communication and failure on my part to follow up, I inadvertently missed my first class.  Nice. 

By Wednesday, I was desperate for the weekend, but had to settle for running out to do some errands right around 17h.  I had arranged an appointment to get my glasses adjusted, and that 5 minute appointment went well.  From there, I visited a little wine shop to purchase a birthday gift, and that, too, was a nice experience; I had not known that the shop was located in my neighborhood, and the guy really knew his stuff. 

As always, when running errands, I go to the furthest point, then work my way back in the homeward direction.  Thus, the eyeglasses place was a 10 minute walk from my house, the wine place 9 minutes, and my next stop, the hardware store, was 7 minutes.  All pretty much on the same street. (gotta love my neighborhood.)

The hardware store was where I wanted to purchase a replacement toilet seat.  This visit took a little longer, because, well, there is not much to a toilet seat, but the variety on display led me to think otherwise.  

I think it is funny how none of us ever really stop and think about what it is that we look for in that perfect toilet seat.  I certainly don't, at least.   When shopping for other items for the household, sure.  I always know what features and stuff I want for the television, or microwave oven, and am always willing to put in the time to research before I make the purchase.  My espresso machine purchase came after hours of comparison and contemplation. 

But to spend so much time thinking about the purchase of a Klobrille?  Never. 

I first learned the word Klobrille at the fitness studio I used in the first years I lived in Frankfurt.  I knew the term Toilettensitz, of course, and that was a logical translation.  Klo was also a word I was familiar with, as it is the colloquial word for toilet.  But Klobrille thew me, as Brille is the word for eyeglasses. 

But, there I was one day in the bathroom stall at my gym, and I noticed a sign on the door saying, "Please do not stand on the Klobrille."

I can only say that I was rather confused for days (if not weeks) as wondered why they called it a Klobrille, and perhaps more concerning was the fact that they needed to post a sign like that in the first place.  What kind of gym was I working out at, where people felt inclined to stand around on the toilet seats?

But, I digress. 

When shopping for such item, no one really gives it much thought.  Unlike espresso machines, smart tvs, or microwaves, it is an insignificant purchase which requires little thought prior to making the selection.  That being said, it is a product that we do start thinking about, especially when we have a particularly good (or bad) experience on one. 

Other times in my life, I have finished my business (seen a man about a horse, if you will) and minutes later am thinking to myself, "wow, that was a good experience.  The toilet seat was just right."

Or sometimes it is the complete opposite, and the experience was less enjoyable due to the poor quality of the seat. 

Since we cannot pull a Goldilocks and the Three Bears in the toilet seat store, we tend just to grab one and go to the checkout counter, which is precisely what I did. 

The man at the cashier looked at the bottle of champagne in my hand that was not carrying the Klobrille, and quipped, "would you like to exchange that?" and we had a little chuckle together as I paid. 

The return home was the aforementioned 7 minute walk through the market square.  I think I maintained my dignity as well as one could hope while carrying a bottle of champagne and a toilet seat through the neighborhood as many pedestrians were finishing their shopping at the outdoor market and heading home from work.  

Of course as I got closer to home, I ran into a friend of mine sitting outside a restaurant while enjoying a beer.  "Hey, nice toilet seat," he could not help remarking, then realized what I held in my other hand. "Even better."

I responded that I had been out buying a birthday gift, and he jokingly asked me which one was the gift, or were both of them to be given.  (I always like those brief moments where there is some confusion that comes from different thought patterns from questions that are not specific:  "where did you get hit?"  "on the head."  "no, i meant, where location?"  and so on....)

At any rate, we clarified the confusion, he complimented me on the choice of champagne, and I continued home. 

For sure, that was probably the highlight of the week.  Thursday was not a good day at work, though I did manage to get my classes sorted out.  

Friday did not get off to a roaring start, either, but at least the weekend was soon upon us.  After finishing my last conference call in the early afternoon, I decided to install my new toilet seat, and after a few minutes of struggle getting the old one removed, did just that. 

No, it was not that super week that I had hoped for, but later today I am going to stand on my new toilet seat and do some reflecting.  Next week will certainly be better. 

see you out there

Bryan

Late to the Show, and Almost Always Walking on Green

In 2005, I was actively not watching television, save for some early morning football matches during the weekend.  Dramas, crime shows, and sitcoms were just not interesting to me at the time.  Despite my appreciation for some British broadcasting, I was always annoyed when I heard about yet another US remake of a British film or show.  

And that is why I completely missed The Office.  

By 2006, I was no longer in the US, and had relatively little access to any US television programming, which pretty much was fine by me.  That said, I continued to keep up with films, and managed to make a decent collection of DVDs, including a mix of indie films, old standbys, Hollywood hits, and a nice amount of European films.  From time to time I would see a comedy film from the states, and as I checked the actor's bios, regularly saw that one or more had been in the cast of The Office. 

Once or twice, I wondered if I should perhaps check that show out, just to see what all the fuss had been about.  I have become a fan of Steve Carell over the years, and I consider him to be particularly funny in many of his roles. 

At the start of this year, The Office popped up on netflix, and I decided to watch an episode or two. 

And of course I got hooked. 

So, my month of February has included me watching the entire series.  To some extent, so much English language broadcasting has not done my German skills any favors, but once I got into the series, there was NO WAY I was not going to finish.  

During this same period, I continued rereading the familiar stories of Ian Rankin.  I started just before Christmas, and this past week finished the latest novel.  Thus, I have read 8 novels so far this year, and while some people might argue that it does not count if it is a repeat, I have already expressed my opinion on that.  Besides, there is just something about rereading good literature that comforts the soul. 

And it also makes me a little sad.  I get very emotional at the end of something that I find meaningful, including mentioned series of books, or a good vacation, or a good visit with friends and family, or the conclusion of a really good television series. 

This week stands out as a really shitty week, considering the sad state of the world.  My heart, thoughts, and prayers are with the citizens of a country who have just been invaded, and those thoughts and prayers are for the rest of the world, too, as it just seems unfathomable that we just do not seem to be learning from our past. 

Part of me felt a little guilty for escaping into my books and my show, but I needed it, all the same. 

As I finished the latest Rebus, I just reflected on how great that series has developed, and reminded myself of all the good discussions I have had with other fans of the series over the past years. 

Then came Friday evening, and I sat down to watch the final episodes of The Office.  The finale, itself, was absolutely incredible, and I was just overwhelmed with emotion.  I am kind of glad that I watched all of the seasons in a condensed time period; I am not sure I would have found it as entertaining I had watched it on a weekly basis over nine years.  On the other hand, I might not have been so blown over emotionally I had spread the viewings out over time. 

At any rate, despite the heavy emotions, my heart just felt fuzzy as the television series came to an end.  What a heartwarming finale, and again, a brilliant show. 

With a couple of deep breaths, I am ready to renew my efforts on German language broadcasting, in the interest of continuing my language learning and cultural education.  I mention this, because once or twice during the month, I did notice that I was suffering from the "if you don't use it, you lose it," situation.  

Fortunately, I can remedy that very quickly.  In fact, Friday afternoon was a perfect reminder that I am still deep in the German way of life. 

There is a little stoplight down the street from my flat.  The intersection is at Funffingerplätchen, which is where five little streets all intersect with one another.  

I do not want to complicate the explanation, but the streets are either super busy with traffic, or absolutely empty.  In fact, the stoplights turn off in the late evening, around 22h, as there is simply no need. 

But, there are plenty of pedestrians, cyclists, e-scooter riders, along with various autos and delivery trucks, so it behooves one to pay attention. 

Back to the stoplight, it has a crosswalk (known as der Zebrastreifen, Pablo), and while the crosswalk is barely two lanes wide, it does have the little button that you press so that the traffic light will change to green so that pedestrians can safely cross the street. 

Friday afternoon, I wanted to run a few quick errands during the lunch break, so after grabbing my shopping bags, I walked to the light and stood there along with other people, waiting for the light to change. 

It was a particularly busy afternoon car-wise, so we all waited a few minutes, then continued waiting, as the light had not yet changed. 

Everyone in the neighborhood knows about how long the light takes before changing, and once that time period passes, you starting wondering what the problem is. 

Suddenly, the car traffic was gone, and still the light had not changed.  By this time, there were quite a few pedestrians on either side of the street, all still waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green.  Patience was starting to wane, especially as 3 minutes passed without a SINGLE car driving by. 

Light still red. 

Why hadn't someone gone ahead and crossed?

Because there was a child waiting with us.  

And no one wanted to be the guy who defied the rules and did not set the example. 

I was actually standing next to the mom and her son, and overheard them talking with each other, asking the logical question, "why is it taking so long?"

Finally, as we all still stood there and the light still had not changed, an older man announced, "Look, I am declaring that this light has turned green, and I am crossing.  I have some place I need to be, and cannot wait any longer."

That was all we needed.  People started looking both ways, then crossed the street and we got on with our lives.  

The mother and her son were headed in my direction, and were walking just a few steps in front of me.  Both kept looking back to see if the light had ever changed, and they continued this for the better part of the next block, until they no longer could see the stoplight that must have been malfunctioning. 

I found the whole experience rather charming.  People want to follow the rules, even in seemingly insignificant situations.  We were all frustrated, not to mention a bit confused, but it all worked out in the end. 

Minutes later, I was finished with my errands and returned to the same intersection on my way home.  

Yep, the light was still red. 

I looked to see if any children were standing around, then checked for traffic, then crossed safely, and continued on my way home. 

Look both ways, and see you out there

Bryan

Wrong Weather in the Right Month, and Other Challenges of Keeping Time and Dates

My grandmother summed it up the best when she remarked, "It is a beautiful spring day.  It is just the wrong month."

She was referring to the weather during my recent stateside visit over Christmas, where most of the days I was there were a rather pleasant 24 degrees Celsius.  A couple of days got closer to 30 degrees, which did not sit so well with me.  I wanted the temperature to be a lot more fitting to the season, requiring jackets and sweaters to be worn.  

As they always about Texas weather, just wait a few minutes, and it will change.  

Sure enough, the day before I was to return to Germany, we started the morning close to 27 degrees C, and by evening the cold front had blown in, and we were all saying "Brrrrr," as we checked the thermometer, which was right at -2 degrees C.  

Ironically, 40 hours later, I was back in Frankfurt, sweating ever so slightly as I removed my jacket, sweater, and my thermal; German temps were rather mild at the beginning of the new year.  

I always kind of chuckle during the first month of each year.  I see countless emails from people referring to the previous year during January.  For those of us who ever had a checking account, we can ask ourselves how many times did we have to void a check in the days after new year's, simply because we wrote the wrong darn year?

We all have to kind of adjust to things each January, at least I do.  This past month was no exception for me; I struggled to kick start the year, and really kind of flopped around for a few weeks trying to get into the swing of things. 

This year, I was overjoyed to receive some wall calendars from my father as a small Christmas gift.  I missed receiving those last year when travel was impossible due to the pandemic.  Although we had agreed as a family to sort of skip the gift exchange, Dad kept the family tradition of giving me said calendars: one with scenes of Texas, and the other sharing inspirational quotes from the cast of Sesame Street.  Quite fitting, I must say. 

Hanging the calendars in my Frankfurt flat was pretty much the first thing I did after I had unpacked, and I felt like it was a great way to get prepared for the new year.  What I failed to immediately realize was that in North America, the week begins on Sunday, while European standards start the week on Monday.  

In addition to using my digital calendars on my computer and mobile, I like to note meetings and events on the wall calendar.  Multiple times during January, I found myself preparing for a meeting, only to find out that I was about to be a day early.  Fortunately I got in the habit of checking the calendar DAY, so only had to scribble out a few things.  The football schedule added to the confusion, because many games had to be postponed due to Covid illness.  Thus, planning to watch a match on Saturday afternoon was suddenly rescheduled for the following Sunday, or during the week, or tbd.  

Despite the scribbles on the calendar, I am happy to have them, and gee whiz, time is speeding by, as we are already in the next month of the year.  (San Antonio River Walk and a comment from Oscar the Grouch, in case you are wondering.)

Just like with calendars, where I use both digital and paper to keep up with the days of the week, I like to keep an analog clock on the wall in my kitchen, which also serves as my office.  It is not so much that I am watching the clock, but rather, I just like hearing the second hand go round, and I keep a decent idea of what the time is.  

Sure, my computer and mobile calendars always sound an alert a few minutes before a meeting, and they all seem to be pretty well in sync.  As helpful as these little alerts are, I sometimes just sort of tune out, since I know I can glance at the wall for the exact time.  (It also helps that the church bell in my neighborhood chimes every 15 minutes; it is a perk of where I live)

However, my wall clock has been a little off over the past months, if not years.  Normally, as soon as I recognized this, I would change out the battery, reset the clock, and continue merrily along.  

Finally, and maybe it is just a sign as to how long an inexpensive wall clock from Ikea will last, I found that my once pretty dependable Wanduhr had given up the ghost.  No less than three times during the first couple of weeks in January, I had glanced at the wall clock, only to find that it was still stuck on 30 minutes ago.  The first time I tried to correct it, I simply changed the battery.  Two days later, I had reset the time, only to find that the clock now took 75 or so seconds for each minute, which was subtle enough that I did not immediately notice.  

Once the penny finally dropped, I decided to invest in a new clock.  It actually was a pretty challenging task, because I seem to be one of the few consumers who actually WANTS a wall clock with an audible second hand.  

But, things are now back on track, my new clock is doing what it is supposed to, and I am feeling pretty punctual.  

All these events fit nicely into the conversation I had with a friend this past Friday in the pub.  He was explaining that his girlfriend was frustrated with the way her mobile phone was alerting her to upcoming meetings and such.  She, herself, had missed a few events, and was trying to blame the technology. 

I could almost relate to her complaint, and I certainly understood her frustrations.  But, I always try to hold myself accountable for my actions.  If I need to set up a lot of alerts and reminders on my mobiles and laptops, I also never fail to make sure that I have ink in my pen and a little pack of post-it notes, so that I can write the reminders down, even if it is a reminder to listen for the little chime alert on my phone. 

And that is exactly why I was on time for my appointment at the hairdresser early Friday evening, because I had written the correct date and time on my wall calendar (on the right date) and had also written a sticky note to myself.   And this all helped me determine that the reason that my mobile alert for that appointment did not sound at the expected time was not because the technology had failed, but because I had inadvertently managed to switch my mobile to "do not disturb."

Happy February

Bryan 

Totaled Jeans and Totally Advent

 "Riiiiippppp."

"Well, there goes the crotch of my jeans," I thought to myself this week as I knelt to pick something up in my living room.  

As I was working from home that morning and had no plans or need to leave the house, I continued to wear the jeans.  I figured I would just throw them out that night when I changed clothes.  It wasn't as if it was a total surprise.  After all, the button fly was prone to popping open at very inconvenient times, allowing moose to stampede out of my jeans, or a glimpse of Santa riding on his sleigh, or whatever other boxers I happened to have on during the given day. 

The following afternoon, I encountered almost the EXACT experience again.  Another "riiippp," and suddenly, I had effectively totaled two pairs of jeans inside of a week. 

The positive from this is that I now have more room in my closet, and reinforcements (brand spanking new jeans) are soon to be filling the space.  Still, I get a little sentimental when it is time to let go of a friendly garment that I have worn for many years.  Twice. 

In other exciting news, I finally got my first hint of getting into the spirit of the season.  A week ago Saturday, I woke up to find snow on the ground, which melted over the course of the afternoon, but still served as a nice little glimpse of winter.  Frankfurt tends to be really cold in November and early December, then turns mild (relatively) until mid January, where it stays ridiculously cold until at least the beginning of March. 

Keeping up with recent tradition, my father sent me a digital Advent Calendar, and I am enjoying this one just as much as previous years.  The theme this year is set in London, and each day you get a little interactive scene; sometimes it is a game, or an opportunity to decorate a tree, or simply a peaceful Christmas scene.  Besides the daily surprise, there are little games and various other activities to keep you entertained in the days leading to Christmas.  

As much as I enjoy the calendar itself, I actually like enjoying that my father enjoys it so much.  Likewise, my sister is pretty enthused.  Over the past week, we have all compared notes on the little things that we have found in the setting, the surprises, and our favorite parts.  

Because this year's calendar is set in London, Big Ben chimes in accordance with the computer clock.  Hands down, it is my favorite thing, so far.  

The Advent Calendar has a lot of meaning in our family.  My grandmother (my mother's mother) was very creative and artistic.  When my sister was very small, Nana made a calendar from felt.  Each day in December had a little pocket containing an ornament.  Each day, you put one of the ornaments on the felt Christmas tree, up until the 24th, which always contains the star.  

We all have our childhood memories of Christmastime, and the family Advent calendar (along with the Advent wreath) was close to top of the list.  Each day, my sister and I would take turns putting up an ornament.  Over the years, we had to take turns on who went first, so as to ensure that one of got to put the star up at least once every two years. 

My sister, many years later, had the good sense to make a new felt Advent calendar not only for herself and family, but also for me.  So, these past 20 years, we have three of the Advent calendars on the go. In various parts of the world. 

This year, it is the only decoration I have up in the flat, but I am making the most of it.  And, just like I did as a child, immediately upon waking up in the morning, on the way to the kitchen to turn on the espresso machine, I stop and put up another ornament.  And love it. 

The other highlight of the week involves me finally learning the difference between eggnog and Eierlikör.  

As I child, I was first introduced to eggnog that came from the dairy section of the grocery store.  It was basically milk and eggs and sugar.  Call it innocence, but for years I was not aware that there was a version which contained alcohol.  

One time at a Christmas party at someone's house, I was pleased to find that they had homemade eggnog.  Of course, this was back before I knew exactly what the ingredients were; I just knew it tasted good and it was special for Christmas. 

At the party, I overlooked the fact that there were two separate punch bowls of eggnog.  Logic (for a seven year old) at the time told me to go to the closest punch bowl for a refill.  That was, until an adult pointed out that I was refilling my cup with the "souped" up version.  

My parents quickly intervened and made it clear which bowl I could use, but by the way, slow down on the consumption of sweet beverage.  Christmas, children, and sugar, eh?

A couple of years later, I discovered a recipe for a single eggnog serving in a children's cookbook, and I proceed to proudly use my initiative to whip up a serving or two.  My friend Jeff was visiting one time, and decided that eggnog was not for him, based on the ingredients he saw me mixing. 

Up until that point, it had never occurred to me that eggnog ingredients might put someone off.  I recognize that not everyone has a taste for it, but I think it is just the idea of a raw egg going in a drink creates a few questions.  My thought at the time was simple.  If Rocky can drink raw eggs, then I can too.  

Ah, the 70s, Christmas, children, and sugar, eh?

So, this past Wednesday, just a mere 12 hours after I had ruined my second pair of jeans, I met up with the usual crowd at the pub.  This was our final get together with everyone before the holidays.  Two of the girls brought homemade Eierlikör, which is rather popular in Germany at Christmas.  

Although I am not a huge fan of shots, especially sweet liquor, I certainly wanted to sample the offering.  The girls found some little shot cups made of cookie, but lined with chocolate on the inside, so as to make for an edible shot experience. 

Eierlikör to me tastes almost exactly like I remember eggnog, obviously with alcohol (rum) in it.  

But, as we discussed the differences between the two (while standing outside the establishment sneaking our drinks, as the pub frowns on one bringing in their own spirits for consumption....at least until we made the landlord and the waitress try a sample or three, themselves) I discovered that while eggnog contains egg yolk, Eierlikör does not.  

Had no one said anything about the difference, I never would have known.  That said, it tasted great to me, and we all enjoyed several rounds during the evening. 

It made for a very nice evening, very festive, and a nice way for me to wrap things up in Bornheim for a couple of weeks.  

True, my tongue and head were not functioning so well the next morning, but hey, Christmas, children, and sugar, eh?  And beer and shots.  

That night at the pub, I looked across at the school, and noticed that this year, due to the high cost of utilities, the school is not lighting a window each night for Advent.  One of my fond Bornheim Christmas memories is seeing the 24 windows on the front of the school converted into an Advent calendar.  But, in the interest of conserving energy, I do welcome the decision. 

So that is me wrapping things up before I get out of town for a few weeks.  The rules change daily, and with children (no matter what age) and corona, all plans are subject to change.  

Fingers crossed that I will not be too heavily impacted, but I will take things as they come. 

see you out there

Bryan

Learning and Being Thankful

I learned a few things this week, which dovetailed nicely with the opportunity to be thankful, not only for all the normal things that I tend to reflect on during Thanksgiving week, but these tidbits, as well. 

First, I have been proudly recycling for many years, and my system might be considered by some to be a little bachelorly.  For example, rather than take the empty olive oil bottles down a flight of stairs to the receptacle just in front of my house door, I tend to collect them in groups of as many empties that will fit on the little edge between my kitchen sink and the wall.  That amounts to about 10 bottles, from recent experience.

Plastic recycling is a little more organized; I simply fill up a small plastic trash sack until it is overflowing.  Then, I take it down to the containers outside in our back garden.  The Müllmann generally comes by once or twice per week to make the collection, but sometimes the bins are overflowing, right about the time that I need to take my stuff downstairs.  No real problem for me, but should any visitor walk in my kitchen, they might notice a big stuffed bag of empty milk cartons.  

When it comes to paper recycling, the guys tend to pick that up less frequently, which is a bit irritating, as our paper bins fill up quite a bit faster, thanks to the constant ordering from the likes of Amazon and other online retailers.  During a conversation at the pub this past Wednesday, someone mentioned the fact that pizza boxes are NOT to be recycled.  At least, not used pizza boxes.  

I felt really put in my place, even though the girl did not direct the statement towards me.  I have been on a pizza kick all year, and have been dutifully (and incorrectly) putting my empty pizza box in the cardboard bin each week.    

For a couple of minutes, I felt like a dolt. But, moments later, I realized that it is better to learn late than never, so I have refined my process and the pizza boxes will now go in the regular trash.  As an aside, I tend to fill up my normal trash sack, then set it out on my balcony for a day or two before running it down to the trash bin outside the house.  Shoving pizza boxes into a trash sack might force me to rethink my normal trash strategy, as the boxes take up  a lot more space (than my normal trash).  

Oh well. 

Coincidentally, just hours before learning that I might be on the cardboard recycling police wanted list, I had an opportunity to learn how my laptop works.  We were finishing up a presentation for a customer, which meant that I spent several hours on some video calls with various colleagues, including a woman from the marketing department.  She called me right after a meeting, so just she and I were speaking when she commented that my camera was looking a little dirty, and she suggested that I perhaps wipe the lens of the camera.  Well, I did that with her right on the call, and immediately discovered that...I had disappeared.  

It was kind of an unsettling moment, aka. "now you see me, now you don't," and I did not have the slightest idea what happened.  I assumed that my laptop camera had picked that given moment to stop functioning; I fiddled with the settings for a couple of minutes which did not improve anything. 

Because I use a virtual background, the disappearing act was rather startling.  The girl I was talking to sent me a screen shot, which clearly showed some smudges, but no Bryan.  

After a quick reboot of my laptop, I was still stuck.  I was sitting there thinking, "Gee, I am going to have to go buy an external webcam," which I did not find pleasing.  All of my calls are done with video, so this was a problem.  I cannot be without a camera.  

I grabbed a cloth and wiped the camera again, feeling kind of helpless, knowing that "wiping" the camera is unlikely to make it function again.  

The penny dropped when I discovered a little sliding mechanism.  Said mechanism slides to the left and blocks the camera.  Slide it to the right, and presto, the camera is on again. 

My private laptop is made by the same manufacturer, and does not have such a mechanism.  What threw me, though, is that the little camera light stays on the whole time, even when the camera is blocked.  

I started an ad hoc meeting with myself, turned on the video, and was relieved to see myself.  Again. 

Just goes to show you that you can work 20 years in repair services, consider yourself relatively capable when it comes to knowing how stuff works, then find that you still can always learn something new.  

Thanks. 

I always get a bit sentimental during Thanksgiving week.  Despite it being one of my favorite holidays, I do not really celebrate it in Germany, other than to speak with family and think extra thoughts of family and friends.  And yes, a certain amount of reflecting on all the things that I am thankful for.  

Thanksgiving Eve sparks fond memories, and this year, as I have just described, I had new reason to be particularly thankful, having just learned how to properly handle pizza boxes and laptop cameras. 

Thus, I woke up Thursday morning feeling particularly creative.  And somehow, against my better judgement, I decided I would fry my chicken flautas instead of baking them, as I have been doing for several years. 

What a mistake that turned out to be. 

I forgot how quickly out of control a frying pan full of oil can get.  I also forgot that you have to really roll the tortillas tightly to keep them from coming apart in the pan.  

For about 15 minutes Thursday evening, it was complete mayhem in my kitchen, as I had oil splattering everywhere, loose pieces of chicken bobbing around in the pan, half-rolled tortillas turning crisp on one side, and not crisp enough on the other.  

And I still had half the batch to go.  

I managed to avoid burning myself, and that was probably the highlight of the evening.  In fairness, the flautas did taste okay, not least of all because guacamole and fresh made salsa solve a lot of the world's problems, but I could not bring myself to do the clean up that evening.  I would leave that until Friday, and would also make a special note that baked flautas are not only easier and less messy, they are more healthy.  

I will leave the fried flautas eating experience for my next visit to Uncle Julio's or wherever, somewhere where they know what they are doing.  

And that itself is reason enough to be thankful, especially since I now know what to do with my pizza box, too. 

see you out there

Bryan

Not Just Another Tagebuch or Kalendar

 Yesterday while I was in the Apotheke, the nice lady helping me offered me a calendar, which I gladly accepted.  A couple of weeks ago, a friend gave me a calendar that a mutual friend had made; his art is perhaps not for everyone, but hey, a calendar is a calendar. 

Part of my autumn (or end of year) routine is to pick up a Chefkalendar from my Post Office.  It is an A5 sized book tailored for the business day.  Office Supply shops are kind of scarce in my neighborhood, and the one shop that I am familiar with seems to have rather strange hours.  I think maybe my first couple of years in Germany, I was buying my business calendar at his shop, but one day while running errands,  I found his shop closed, and, somewhat disappointed, headed on to the PO to mail a letter (and complete my errands.)  While standing in line, I discovered that the PO had office calendars in a little display, and I quickly decided that it was perfect for me. 

I really got started on the business calendar kick right after college.  I was visiting Spence, and noticed his day calendar.  On the way home from the visit,  I stopped in the SMU Bookstore and picked up the exact same one.  I repeated this routine until I moved abroad. 

Sure, I also enjoy a wall calendar, and every year look forward to what scenes or photos I will get to look at on the calendar hanging on the wall in my hallway.  This year it was international libraries, last year it was baby goats, the year before that, scenes of Ireland, and so on.  

But, it is the day planner that I keep open on the desk and use most frequently.  I record so much information there: birthdays, trips to the store, cash flow, when Arsenal play, and generally scribble out to-do lists.  For example, today's entry has me updating this blog post, submitting my meter readings to the utility company for the year end, and the time of this afternoon's match.  And, as written two seconds ago, make a batch of tortilla soup. 

All of these day calendars are still with me from years past, and from time to time I do go back and look at what might have happened on a a given day or in a certain year.  

I have noticed that sometimes over the past years, I have used the day calendar in lieu of a journal.  That being said, I have another collection of journals, going back decades.  And these are almost more important to me than the calendars.  

When my junior high English teachers encouraged us to write in our journals, a lot of my fellow students rolled their eyes and considered it just more homework.  I developed an appreciation for it, and while I did not keep a steady journal during high school, it did kind of kick in during university, and has continued ever since.

Sometimes I wrote my journals in notebooks displaying the college logo, other times just used legal pads, and eventually found a hardcover notebook specifically designed for journal writing.  I must have filled at least 5 of those books up while spending quiet evenings at the Old Monk.  

Once you get in the habit, it is pretty easy to maintain a journal.  Being a fan of office supply shops, I regularly perused the selection of journals I could use.  Additionally, I really got into writing instruments, and thanks to my sister, became a huge fan of Lamy pens.  It was all about ink and paper for me. 

Moving to Europe was the kickoff of this Blog; it was a request from Pablo, for which I am still grateful.  But, I was not about to leave the pen and paper behind.  In fact, every post from 2006 was hand written before being typed into the laptop.  I actually would edit the hand written stuff before it was posted.  

Once I got to Germany, I realized that I would get more posts (stories of the life of Bryan) done if I simply sat at the laptop.  Indeed, this has saved me some time, and I found that I could still make some time for writing in my journal.  As some of you might have gathered, the blog posts tend to be somewhat personal, but truth be told, despite the fact that I do write for myself, I am aware that there is an audience, however small.  With the journals, the entries are significantly more personal.  

Journal writing in a pub or a cafe is just a nice way to pass the time.  Sadly, writing in public seems to happen less and less for me, but I would not rule it out again some time in the future.  In fact, my whole journal writing process has kind of changed over the years.  Even 10 years ago, I was still having really expensive paper product sent to me from the US.  Seriously, I was paying 100 Euro just to import 100 Euro worth of heavyweight paper.  After a while, it got ridiculous.  About this time, I also came to the conclusion that no matter how great a writing instrument I was using, my penmanship was going crap.  

There was a wonderfully pleasant afternoon maybe 10 years ago when I was sitting by myself at a table outside of my local.  As I have mentioned, one tends to see a great deal of the world from the quiet Bornheim corner.  This particular afternoon was no exception; I was lucky to have started early, managing a good couple of hours of writing before half the world walked by and stopped to talk. 

At one point, I was chatting with a friend, then another couple who knew my friend came up.  The guy glanced at the open notebook on the table, and said, "Wow, that is the coolest handwriting I have ever seen.  Who wrote that?"

This caused the others to admire the penmanship, and all quickly realized who the author was, as I was the only sitting there with a pen in my hand.  

Alas, that was a while ago.  These days, there are times when I cannot even read my own handwriting, and start to wonder if I am consuming enough water or lacking sodium, or who knows. 

I kept lugging my journal with me wherever I went, but as my backpack was filled with a laptop, calendar, and a journal, I started exploring options for downsizing.  Eventually, I moved away from a A4 sized journal, and have conveniently found the smaller A5 (yep, just like my day calendar) journal, which I been using for the past 5 or 6 years.  

At my office (which is my kitchen table), my journal is placed to the right of my laptop, and my calendar to the left.  Both are black, and from the outside cover, you notice no difference.  

Inside, of course, is a completely different story.  

And that is so much why I like keeping the journal.  It tells the story.  Some of the entries are short and sweet, almost more of a diary than anything else.  Other days, I write page after page.  

Today, I am on the last page of my journal.  Fortunately, I had the good sense to stock up on blank journals, so tomorrow I can begin a new book.  The one that I am finishing today has a first entry from Jan 1, 2020.  That amounts to 192 pages of action packed entries over the past 23 months.  

Here's to starting a fresh journal (which is like sleeping on freshly changed sheets), a tasty tortilla soup, and an Arsenal result. 

see you out there

Bryan

Being a Derry Girl in Bornheim

In 1991, I returned from a school trip to Ireland and a couple of days later, wished my sister "buen viaje" as she headed off to Spain.  At the time, I had no idea that her move would reward me with a close friend.  In fairness, neither did my sister, since she had not yet met her roommate, an Irish girl who relocated to Valencia about the same time. 

Irish culture continued to influence me heavily through my final semesters in college.  I kept up with my sister regularly, and obviously heard stories about what she and her roommate were doing in Spain; going to clubs, going to shows, doing stuff that girls in their early 20s tend to do. 

It would be another four years before I would finally get to meet Stephanie.  Meanwhile, I graduated college, my sister got engaged, my friend Pablo moved to Valencia (and became Stephanie's roommate, no less), and eventually Stephanie married a Spaniard, and my sister married her fiancé.  Finally, in 1995, I went across to Valencia to see my sister, and meet Stephanie and her husband. 

Meeting friends of your siblings is fairly routine, especially if you are pretty close, as I am with my sister. But, as much as I enjoyed the evening out with Stephanie and her husband, along with my sister and brother-in-law, I never expected what happened a year later. 

Late 1996, I moved to Massachusetts, kind of spontaneously.  Independent of my decision, Stephanie and her husband also moved to the Boston area, for Rafa's work at an accounting firm.  For the next two years, we all hung out frequently.  One of the best times of my life, as experiences go.  What was particularly rewarding is that Stephanie, Rafa,  and I became very close friends, but the fascinating point to me was that Stephanie was also a very close friend of my sister's.  But, our friendships remained somewhat independent of one another, completely unconditional.  

When I returned to Texas from Boston, Stephanie and Rafa returned to Europe, spending some time in Portugal and southern Spain before eventually settling in Valencia again. 

And my friendship with both of them continues, for which I am very grateful.  

Despite the odd conversation, text messages or emails, we did lose a little contact during the past year, up until a few months ago.  One day, I had a wonderfully long overdue telephone call with Stephanie, and we talked for several hours.  It was brilliant.  

At one point, we traded suggestions on literature, films, or tv series that we were enjoying.  Steph, who is just a couple of years older than me, mentioned a funny show that she had seen, called "Derry Girls."

She went on to say that she could connect with the show, even though the characters (high school aged girls growing up in the late 90s) were from the generation after ours.  

I decided to check the show out, and immediately understood what she meant.  I could not stop laughing; I found the complete series simply fantastic. 

The show is set in Northern Ireland and is about the experiences of the characters at a girls high school.  An English male cousin of one of the girls also attends the school, for strategic reasons (related to the plot), and this obviously has great comedic effect.  Each of the girls has her own character, one is overly sarcastic, one is the wild child, another is very eccentric.  Most everyone can personally relate to similar experiences with friends, whether from school or wherever.  

In one of the most heart warming moments of the series, the male cousin has to return to England.  Despite the constant hard times he gets from everyone, especially from the girls, they are all devastated by his departure.  In a charming scene, the girls are standing glumly in a crowd of people gathered to hear Bill Clinton speak, when suddenly the guy returns, proudly exclaiming, "I belong here.  I am staying.  I am a Derry Girl!" 

I was reminded of what it is like to be a Derry Girl this past week when I met up with some friends at the pub as part of the Wednesday routine.  A group of mainly women have met up together each week for the past several years.  I have always greeted them while at the pub, but this summer started to join them at their table.  Several of them are former colleagues, but they (in much the same way of the OM Happy Hours from years ago) plan one evening a week to gather for a little break from the hustle and bustle of life, spouses, kids, etc.  

Two of the girls I have known for several years, but in the past months have gotten to know the rest of the group.  Each one brings a certain character and it has really turned into a pleasant event.  One is overly sarcastic, one if always finding humor in something and just loves to laugh, one is a bit more quiet and thoughtful; the combination just works, and I look forward to my Wednesday evenings with them.  The topics of conversation vary from venting about work, humorous incidents wherever they happen, current events, and of course, a bit of gossip.  

In other words, just normal conversation.  

There is always plenty of banter, and frequently, I get the brunt of any frustrations one of the girls might relate about my gender.  

At one point this past Wednesday, one of the girls related an incident involving her husband, to which I responded, "Männer" as I rolled my eyes.  

Guys can be real jerks, as we know, but all the girls appreciated my comment, as it fit perfectly into the conversation. 

I, for one, always enjoy a bit of perspective, and thankfully get this opportunity each week. 

In turn, the girls are equally glad that I am present; they have pretty much accepted me as one of the group.  In fact, a couple of weeks ago, I had to work a little later than normal, and suddenly I received a text message, "Where are you?"  

About that time, I realized that I am one of the Bornheim Mädels, effectively a Derry Girl in my neighborhood. 

Our antics may not be quite ready for a sitcom of its own, but we have our moments. 

See you out there

Bryan

Still Looking for a Birthday Buddy

 A few years ago, I was present at the exact moment two people discovered that they shared the same birthday.  It was an interesting moment to witness, and I realized just how seldom this kind of thing happens.  I felt a bit envious; where was my birthday buddy, and how come I had not yet met them?

I never really referred to people as "buddy," not with any great frequency, anyway.  I tended to say "dude" or "man" more in high school.  By the time I was in college, I was hearing "man" and "dude" so much that I gradually stopped using the terms.  Right about that time, I stopped saying "what's up?" as a greeting, pretty much for the same reasons.  

The definition of the term buddy can be a little confusing.  One time at a college party, I stepped around the corner of the house to take care of business.  Pretty much all the guys did the same thing, as we left the one bathroom in the house for all the female guests.  As typically happens as the evening progresses and the kegs keep flowing, one found oneself spending more and more time outside in the side yard. 

"Hey, buddy, would you mind not pissing on my house?"  asked a voice from the darkness.  

I was not really in a position to answer with any type of dignity, but I finished up and thought, "I do not think that guy thinks I am his buddy."

A couple of years later, the store manager where I worked constantly addressed me as buddy.  "Hey buddy, can you restock the telephone cables?" or "Hey buddy, make the bank drop tonight after we close." 

Fast forward almost 30 years, and I find myself using the term a little more frequently, not as a form of address, but rather as a reference.  

For example, my friend Nadja is also my key buddy.  I have her keys, and she has mine.  Neither one of us tends to lock ourselves out of our flats, but it also nice to know that we are covered, should that ever happen.  Strangely enough, when I was a child, my father, who does refer to groups of friends as "buddies," never told me specifically that the Swords or the Stuarts were our key buddies.  Instead, he simply said, "If you ever get locked out of the house, go to the Swords.  They have a spare key."

A few months ago when I got my vaccination, again my friend (my key buddy) became my vaccination buddy.  The two of us went together to the doctor's office for our shot.  

The following week, I was telling some German friends about my vaccination experience, and referred to my vaccination buddy.  They gave me some curious looks, and I went on to explain that yours truly does not particularly enjoy visiting the doctor, especially for an injection.  It was a lot more comforting to have someone there with you. 

I elected not to tell those friends about my previous vaccination buddy experience from college (probably right about the time I was decorating the outside of some guys house) when it was time for flu shots.  A friend of mine accompanied me to the auditorium where they were offering the vaccination, and I was really really worked up.  My friend turned to me, noticing my anxiety, and simply said, "Hey, I am your flu shot buddy," and her comforting words got me through the event. 

Last week I got my booster, and unfortunately had to go to the clinic without my buddy.  Fortunately, I did keep the recent memory of our last visit at the front of my mind, and as relieved as I am to have the booster, I did miss her company and comfort. 

Yesterday on the way back from the supermarket, I encountered two boys arriving home from school. They rang their doorbell (as they have a few years to grow before they will have their own keys and eventually key buddies), and as soon as someone answered the intercom (presumably the father), both announced (in that quiet way that children are capable of) "Wir sind!"

I cannot be sure that they were twins, but I have to assume they were brothers.  I just found it fascinating and endearing how they both answered in unison.  

A nice visual of what being buddies is all about. 

So, today my two friends celebrate their birthdays, one in Germany, one in Texas.  Although one of them is not the biggest fan of birthdays, I know that both are equally pleased to have a birthday buddy. 

As for me, I have again reached out to one of my favorite authors, who not only shares my birthday, but also shares a fondness for Arsenal FC.  I cannot count Mr Hornby as my birthday buddy until he gives his consent.  Here's hoping he feels so inclined to accept my invitation. 

Until then, see you out there

Bryan

Mask Routines, Another Round of Names, and (Almost) Rebellious Boxers

The other week, I was on a business trip in another German state to meet a couple of coworkers.  One colleague was coming in from the Czech Republic, and another was coming from the Alsace area near to the German border.  I took the train to Erfurt Monday morning, and like always, followed the rules involving mask wearing.  (In public transport, everyone over the age of six has to wear a mask.)

Through this whole experience, I have rarely seen anyone not following the rules; everyone I have seen in supermarkets, U-Bahns, trains, and restaurants has always had a mask on.  Despite the fact that I am not gallivanting all over the city, I have taken great comfort in the absence of reports of people defiantly refusing to wear masks.  It has all kind of become routine. 

Upon my arrival in Erfurt, I took a taxi to the repair facility, and I did notice that the driver was not wearing his mask.  I found this curious, but decided not to say anything about it.  I was not actually sure what the actual rules were in the particular state.  

I got settled in the site, turned on my laptop, and was writing an email when one of the colleagues walked in.  "What are the mask rules?"

"Good question. I was just wondering that myself.  What made you ask?"

He responded that at the security check in at the site, none of the guards were wearing masks.  I sort of made the argument (however loose) that maybe they were following the "if you are at your desk, you do not have to wear your mask," rule.  

In the facility, we always had to have our masks on while walking around, and it was no big deal. 

A couple of hours later, the third colleague arrived.  We finished our work day, then headed to the hotel. 

Before dinner, we met in the lobby bar for a quick beer.  The servers wore their masks, as did we while walking to our table.  Once seated, of course, we removed our masks. 

The particular state has some pretty high infection numbers, and the three of us discussed the current situation, comparing experiences from our three different living areas. 

Upon arrival at the restaurant, the greeter confirmed our reservation, then asked us for our proof of vaccination, which we all promptly provided. (Inside dining requires one to show proof of recovery, negative test, or vaccination, known as the 3G rule.)

The second evening, our experience at a different restaurant was identical.  All the rules being followed, and, like I said, it has gotten so routine, you do not really even think about it. 

Later in the week, I got back to Frankfurt, and was more than ready for a couple of beers Friday evening. I headed over to the pub, where I joined a friend and his wife, who were enjoying their own start to the weekend. 

"What the hell are the mask rules, these days?" Rob asked, nodding in the direction of the waitress walking through the patio. She was not wearing her mask.  I have known the girl for a little over a year (she worked in the pub the previous summer), and actually had only seen her without a mask one time.  The girl happens to be rather striking, and last autumn there was some regular speculation as to what this girl really looked like. No one had ever really seen her face.  

Yes, that striking. 

Funny though, is that it took this incident for us to question the rules.  It had taken us a few minutes to compute "what is different in the picture" before realizing it was simply her not wearing a mask. 

A bit later, I asked her about the current pub mask rules, and she responded that outside it was no longer a requirement (but a decision of the restaurant).  But, inside, the masks still need to be worn, and because the waitstaff serves both indoors and outdoors, they mostly keep their masks on while running around to tables. 

The couple and I shared our recent experiences about mask requirements.  I told them of my couple of days in Erfurt, and they mentioned a recent weekend get away to Paris.  All three of us commented on our observations that along our high street, where most of the restaurants and pubs are located, we had not seen too many establishments cracking down on the rules, whereas Erfurt and Paris seemed to be 100% compliant.  

It was just one of those things that you talk about at the pub, and all three of us recognized our comfort levels; we agreed that we were less likely to enter a super crowded establishment during the winter months.  Those kinds of comments are easier to make when the temperatures are still mildly cool.  Both of them were wearing stocking caps and coats on that evening, and the current temps were nothing compared to what we will have during December and January. 

 I spent the rest of the weekend doing the odd bits and pieces, as you do.  That included spending a nice Sunday afternoon outside, as I alluded to in the last post.  Before I headed outside that afternoon, I did place an order for some boxers, as I realized it was time to stock back up.  I was on a little bit of a money spending kick, as I had just booked some airfare, and I was keen to get those purchases on the October credit card statement.  

This is the part of the blog where I might be accused of sharing too much information, but oh well. When I purchase boxers, I purchase in quantity.  And then never seem to wear them.  Instead, I keep wearing my old boxers, of which I have plenty, but they just get more and more ratty.  Still, I keep washing them and wearing them again.  Eventually, I decide to discard a pair, but usually a couple of wears past their welcome. 

Anyway, rather than purchase in a store, I elected this time around to order online.  Upon order confirmation, I got kind of a vague delivery date, but expected them sometime during the week. 

The week itself, from a work perspective, was busy as usual, only made slightly confusing as we worked with our customer to put a project plan in place.  Such a plan requires action owners, and despite the fact that we have been in contact with each other over the past months, we realized that two of the team, one from our side, one from theirs, had the same names.  In fact, we have multiple overlaps, so we tried to collectively find a way to differentiate.  

It was a fun challenge to solve, and we had a couple of chuckles during the experience. 

Right as that meeting was coming to a close, I received a text notification that my boxer order was out for delivery, and actually provided a time window for when I could expect it.   A nice touch, but always a little bit tricky, kind of like when the cable guy (for those of us old enough to remember what that is) would come make a house call between 8am and 8pm.  Nice. 

But, I needed to go up the street to take advantage of the local vaccination place; I was due for a booster, and wanted to allow sufficient time for that.  The delivery window came and went, and I decided to go get my injection.  After all, it was not as I would urgently need to wear the boxers, not for another 2 years or so, anyway. 

The booster experience was easy as you like,  and I was quite impressed with the way the lady just distracted me with a conversation she was having with a colleague, about something I could not help but listen along to.  Before I knew what had happened, I was finished. 

Back home, I finished my work day, still waiting on the delivery guy.  At 18h, I officially logged off my laptop and headed to the pub, as part of my Wednesday evening routine.  For the next half an hour, I kept looking around at the traffic on the streets;  I was trying to keep an eye for the delivery carrier, knowing that I could sprint home real quick and accept a package, if he happened to turn up. 

The girls I was sitting with soon noticed how distracted as I was behaving; I was basically rubbernecking, trying to keep an eye on all the ways a courier could drive onto the street.  I informed them of my situation, but elected to provide the details of the order.  I just was expecting a package. 

Sure enough, just past 19h, approximately 5 hours after my "delivery window" had closed, I saw the delivery van.  I waited patiently for him to park, gather the packages he needed to deliver, then sort of followed him to my house door. 

I had my ID at the ready, as I figured I would need to prove that I was the true recipient of the package, as opposed to some guy walking up to a delivery man on the street and saying, "hey, that is for me."

It worked out fine, I got my package, and returned to the pub for the evening. 

Our servers were both new.  One of the guys I was slightly familiar with, but I had forgotten his name.  When we went through the introductions, it turned out that both guys had the same name, save for one letter. One is Luka, the other is Lukas.  

Par for my week, on the confusing name thing. But, hey, my boxers are pretty cool. 

See you out there

Bryan

Gotta Be Outside

 This week, the post is short (and maybe a little sweet). 

Work-wise, it was nonstop action Monday through Wednesday as I visited one of our facilities near Erfurt. I spent a couple of evenings getting to know some of my colleagues better, and it was a productive time. 

But it wore me out. 

I returned Wednesday evening, and still had another couple of hectic days to go before the weekend. This included a marathon afternoon full of back to back conference calls. I was really drained by the end of the last one, which ended just around 19h.  

That was the perfect time to eat dinner and fall asleep in front of the television set.  Like always, I woke up just as the credits were rolling, which was the sign to go straight to bed.  I did not care that it was only 21h, the shutters were coming down. 

This, of course, meant that the following morning, around 5, I was up, alert, and bewildered.  It was too early to go to work, but too late to go back to sleep. 

The early start to Friday hinted that my evening might end a little earlier, and sure enough, I was about 2 hours ahead of everyone for most of the day.  I clocked out at 18h, headed to the pub and stood outside in the chilly weather, enjoying a little time to myself. 

About the time I was kind of winding things up, a couple of friends stopped back (we refer to it as the "second shift" of pub time), and I had another one or two for the road, before returning home to watch the Arsenal match. 

The game went well, and got the weekend started off right. 

Saturday was low key, just like I wanted it to be.  That said, it meant today needed to be a bit more productive; flats do not clean themselves, nor do the clothes, for that matter. 

So, I have been domestically enjoying the morning getting the domestic duties taken care of.  By chance, I found a live set of the Bosstones to listen to, which is perfect housecleaning music,  I must say.  

And, it has got me pretty energized, so there is no possible way I can pass up an afternoon to be outside in the autumn sunshine.  The temperature is mild, as long as the sun is still out.  So, I am typing this last sentence, and headed out to enjoy the scene. 

See you out there

Bryan

Knowing When to Pull out the Stops

Right about this time last year, I had completed a couple of rounds of interviews and was soon to receive an offer to begin a new position.  I obviously accepted the role, and since this past January have been a new team member.  

I was prepared for a new challenges, new opportunities, and new excitement.  I was not prepared for some of those things that would turn out to be beyond my control.  I jumped in to things right from the start, and as I worked to integrate myself into the organization, I recognized situations and areas where I felt less sure of myself.  

As spring came, I continued my efforts, but noticed more and more that I was not feeling like I was progressing how I had planned.  As I neared the end of my first six months (Probezeit, as it is known in Germany), I was feeling really uncomfortable; I was having almost no success with any customer contact (cold calling), and that was a big concern, since my role as account manager requires this activity. 

I took a day to formulate all my self assessments and prepared to reach out to my managers.  

They beat me to the punch. 

At the end of June, my manager phoned up and informed me that collectively, the organization was not prepared, not yet convinced, to issue a permanent contract to me, on the grounds that I had not progressed into the role as expected. 

My manager was quick to point out that he recognized the external factors (pandemic, etc.) that made my probation period all the more difficult, and he also highlighted that, rather than just cutting ties with me, the company would extend a short term contract to me.  A contract that would run until the end of October. 

Although this was a bit of a kick in the teeth, I was feeling pretty much the same vibe.  Had I been in their shoes, I would probably have done the exact same thing.  After all, the whole point of the 6 months probation period is to make sure all parties are on the same page. 

I was given a little improvement plan, which identified milestones which I would need to hit during the next 4 months.  Again, their list and my list were almost identical; this was significant because we were more aligned than I had initially thought. 

After receiving the news and signing the new short term contract, I took a day or two to dig deep, reflect, and pull myself together. 

Sure, there was a fair amount of self doubt.  This role was already moving me out of my comfort zone, which was exciting and scary as shit all at the same time.  

It was the self doubt that bothered me the most, but as I took a few more days to reflect, that old spark kind of reignited.  

Naturally, I turned to music for the motivation, and I will take a brief moment to thank Red City Radio, Bad Religion (particularly their album "Process of Belief"), the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Ben Folds, and of course, the Bouncing Souls for helping me put the soundtrack together to get myself psyched back up. 

In truth, my biggest frustration was trying to get over one or two hurdles so that I could really start making things happen. 

My father, as well as a few friends, did offer some kind, supportive words, as well as ears to listen to my frustrations and "get back on track" plan.  

The circumstances in the community and the world (or at least Deutschland) helped: suddenly we had vaccination campaigns, things were opening up, and people in general were finding ways to get back to some sense of normalcy. 

Getting out and about helped me remember how to build my self confidence.  I got to play a little Clark Kent along the way, but the summer was pretty good.  

Blaring the soundtrack in my head, I regained control of what I could control in the first place.  I reminded myself that I could either think negatively or think positively, but only one of those streams would be productive. 

True, I still have a strong desire to throw a hot cup of coffee on someone who says something like, "hey, let's turn that frown upside down!"  but a lot of that has to do with my envy of particularly perky people. 

The theme for the summer was very simple.  No one was going to be able to say that I had not given my all during the remainder of my short term contract. 

Besides that, the final decision was beyond my control.  

So I got on with it.  Music blaring, polished steel toes, and the constant reminder to myself "take it as comes, but make it happen" propelled me through the past few months, and it just felt right. 

My working relationships with internal colleagues developed, my interaction with customers improved, and people started recognizing that I do know what I am talking about; I just do it Bryan style. 

And that is a good thing. 

One afternoon in September, I was speaking with a colleague in the UK, and he said something about my years of experience in business development.  I corrected him, saying "no, not years, but rather months," to which he responded, "Wow, if you hadn't said anything, I never would have known.  You come across as if you have been doing this all your career."

That felt good. 

The following week, one of our customers reached out to me directly, which was another great step in the right direction; the relationship was developing. 

As October started, I felt like I had been holding up my end of the agreement.  I felt like I was finally making the progress that I had set out to do since day one.  Slow starters do not always lose the race, as we know.  

And since this is not a race, but rather a journey, it is all about just getting on with it.  And make sure to have fun while you are doing it. 

This past Tuesday, my boss called me to inform me verbally that I would receive my contact early next week.  I am officially back on the team, and that feels good. 

Next week, once I have the hard copy, I can contact the Arbeitsamt to give them the good news, and get myself off their radar.  

It was kind of crazy few months, and despite holding myself to task, I did have a few anxious moments where the thoughts started wandering in the "what if?" direction.  I had to accept those thoughts, but not let it knock me off track, and I am proud of myself for staying true.  To me. 

So I am going to enjoy the ride, keep the momentum going, and just keep on being Bryan. 

see you out there

Bryan

Family Fun is Never Gefährlich if Dad is Dabei

Please excuse the multi-language title, as I merely wanted to avoid any confusion involving internet searches and key words.  

Early in the week, I was outside having a few beers and just observing people as they went about their lives.  I particularly enjoyed seeing some of the families riding by on their bicycles.  Our neighborhood has a fair amount of young kids, and it is always fascinating to see a new group of little ones out on their bikes, getting familiar with how to ride in busy areas.  

Like any city, you always have to watch out for the various types of traffic:  cars, obviously, but also cyclists, pedestrians, and most recently, e-scooters. 

There is a little stretch of sidewalk that passes right through the middle of the pub's terrace, and this can be a pretty lively spot for traffic congestion.  First of all, if all the outside tables are full of guests, which is normally the case on pleasant weather days, you have a fair amount of movement as the staff serve the tables their drinks and food.  Meanwhile, people are walking by on their way to or from somewhere.  

The particular corner of the neighborhood has a kind of three way intersection, but all the streets are one-way.  For the purposes of this post, I mention it only because parents and children who are cycling together have to sort of split up, as technically cyclists are not allowed to ride on the sidewalk.  

This rule does not tend to apply to younger cyclists, for a variety of reasons.  

What this means, however, is that I tend to get a regular load of entertainment as parents continue riding on the street, trying to watch out for traffic themselves.  These parents are also nervously monitoring their children's process of riding through a busy pedestrian walkway.  It is only for a few seconds, really only about 30 meters, but there have been a fair amount of close calls, where a child has almost lost control or careened into a waitress with a full tray of beers.  (Keep in mind my post from a couple of weeks ago when all the dogs decided to kick off together; it can be a real rodeo in the neighborhood.)

What strikes me the most is how the parents have prepared their kids for this kind of thing.  City families have to go through a different learning process, particularly when considering traffic and strangers.  Those of us who grew up in suburban neighborhoods did not have this experience.  Instead, we knew all the neighbors and the safety of our street. 

I write all of this just to get to the point that I notice that the kids in the neighborhood are able to navigate busy sidewalks and what have you just because they know their parents are close by.  

Despite the safer environment for my own "learning to ride a bike" experience, I distinctly remember learning to pedal with the comfort that mom or dad was close behind me on their own bike.  The confidence came from knowing that mom and dad were right there, even as I rode along wobbily.  Just like the kids in Bornheim. 

As I observed all of this the other evening, my thoughts wandered on to other childhood memories.  Our family did a fair amount of camping when my sister and I were really young, and we learned a lot about nature, being outside, how to make campfires, and other lovely things. 

During summer vacations, we visited many state and national parks.  Sometimes in the evening we would gather around the bonfire with other campers and listen to a park ranger tell stories or explain the history of the area, or whatever.  My dad would use these opportunities to do some whittling.  He always had a knife with him, and was always on the lookout for a good piece of wood to whittle. 

Heck yeah, I wanted to whittle just as soon I was allowed to, old enough to.  

I think my father was keen to get me started with whittling, too.  And, in 1976, not too terribly long after I learned to ride a bike without training wheels, he returned from his first trip to Europe and gave me my very first Swiss Army Knife.  

The knife was red, but instead of plastic (like most of the Swiss knives I see today) it was metal.  I loved the way it felt in my hand, and I was a proud six year old.  

Ready to whittle. 

Unbeknownst to me, my parents had a lively discussion somewhere in Switzerland at the knife shop.  My mother was of the opinion that I was way too young for such a knife.  My father won the argument in the end, likely convincing my mom that his own childhood started out similarly (his dad and grandfather were big outdoorsmen) and not least of all, my father would only allow me to use the knife under his supervision. 

One Saturday afternoon about a week after my folks from returned from their European trip, I decided to sit on the porch with my father and whittle.  

We selected a suitable piece of wood, and my father again showed me all the ways to be careful when handling a sharp knife.  Then, he went back to doing his yard work while I sat on the porch and started carving. 

The first two or three cuts into the wood went really smoothly.  But with the fourth or fifth, the knife slipped right off the wood and directly into my left index finger.  

Well, that certainly surprised me, and when I saw the blood, I became alarmed.  And then I felt the pain. 

My dad had casually glanced over when he heard my yelp, and quickly jumped up and escorted me inside.  The finger was bleeding profusely, and I was leaving quite a little trail through the foyer and den as we got to the kitchen, where my mom was preparing dinner. 

Suddenly, my mom is shrieking, my finger is under the faucet with cold water running, and all the while my father was saying, "He is okay, he is okay, he is okay."  

It took longer for my mom to calm down then it did for my finger to stop bleeding.  

It all happened rather quickly, but suddenly I had a band aid on my finger and the crisis was over.  

It was a simple accident, but certainly helped to remind me about being cautious with knives, hard wood, and whittling in general.  

But my folks were there, and it was okay.  It helped particularly that my dad did not overreact.  After all, to borrow a line from Monty Python, "it was just a flesh wound."

The incident did not stop us from continuing to handle knives.  

Maybe a year or two later, my dad introduced me to game one afternoon.  The game is Mumblety-peg, and in the version he taught me to play, we stood across from each other outside in the front yard with our legs shoulder width apart.  

The object of the game is to flick the knife a few inches away from the opponent's foot.  If the knife stuck blade in, you had to move your foot to where the knife was, then try and and flick your knife next to their foot.  The first one to fall over because they had to stretch too far was the loser.   The loser then had to pull a peg of wood out of the ground with their teeth. 

My dad had learned the game as a boy scout, and I never really even questioned the danger with the game.  How my mom allowed us to play it is a question I will never have an answer for.  

I was never really able to get the hang of flicking or throwing a knife, so I hardly ever won against my father.  Unlike my father's generation, those of us growing up in 1970s were not really allowed to go off and play such games on the school playground; some very clued in school board member must have realized that a bunch of 8 year olds throwing knives at each others feet was just a disaster waiting to happen, so wisely nipped that in the bud.  

But playing mublety-peg with Dad?  No problem at all.  

When Dad is there, how dangerous can it be?  

I celebrated the memory of my first Swiss Army Knife by purchasing a new suitcase (which I have needed for some time) from the same manufacturer.  

The new suitcase arrived yesterday, and to differentiate it from others at the baggage carousel (whenever the hell I travel again), I am considering pasting a sticker on the side of the case. 

"I know how to play Mumblety-peg.  Thanks, Dad."

see you out there, but leave your pocket knives at home.

Bryan