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Thursday, March 28
I don't smile.
Well, wait, that's not true. I do smile. But since I end up looking like a slightly inebriated satyr when doing so, I tend not to break out the big grin just 'cause a camera's turned my way.
It's not an anti-picture thing; I'm not one of those people who make a big deal about being photographed. Doing so has always struck me as a kind of reverse-modesty: if you really don't want people paying attention to you, just sit down and shut up. Let the shutterbugs take their dang photos and go away; it's not like the camera is going to steal your soul or anything.
Unless, of course, you're one of those people who do think that cameras will steal your soul. In that case, feel free to make a stink about it.
On that issue, I'm curious about how the soul-stealing thing works with digital cameras. I figure photocopying a normal picture doesn't duplicate the soul, but as the music and movie people are fond of reminding us in their DMCA-loving way, digital technology lets us make perfect duplicates. Does that mean that copying a digital pictures gives you additional copies of a person's soul? And if I play around with the image in Photoshop, am I, say, giving your soul a nifty little watercolor effect? And if I save the picture at a lower file resolution, am I left with a slightly degraded soul?
I seem to have wandered away from my original point (such as it was).
The in-house newsletter of Gruner + Jahr is doing an article on Oskar's, the magazine your diligent scribe is toiling away on (for the next few weeks. Then I'm looking for a job. Know of any?) They sent a photographer to take a picture of the staff, and I swear, if the guy had told me to smile one more time, I was going to see exactly how far a telephoto lens could be inserted into the human body.
It didn't seem to help matters when, the fifth time he implored us all to grin, I responded that I was smiling. He told me to smile more.
Why, exactly, do we want to see smirking mugs in every photo we come across? Sure, I enjoy working here, but it's not like I walk around the place with the displayed teeth of a feces-consumer. (And where the heck did that phrase come from? Of all the people you'd think wouldn't be grinning ...) Couldn't they just take a candid shot? or even a posed shot with whatever expressions we normally wear? If I felt like smiling, you know, I'd frickin' already be doing so.
So you're on warning. If, for whatever bizarre reason, you happen to be taking my picture anytime soon, just take the thing and go away, OK? Because from now on, photographers will get to chose between a) whatever expression is already on my face and b) whatever my favorite obscene gesture is that day.
Or maybe I'll just start telling people that I think cameras actually are soul-stealing devices and I refuse to let them take what little bit of a soul I have left. With just a modicum of thought, I bet I could come up with a really cool rant on the topic.
'Cause having people think you're a raving loon is a great way to get ahead in life.
posted at 7:24 PM by Timothy J. Gibbons | link
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Wednesday, March 27
So did you vote for your worker council representative today? If so, can you tell me who to pick? 'Cause I have no freakin' clue.
Oh, that's right -- you don't have worker councils back there in the States. I know this because I was harangued about this fact for 10 minutes by one of the candidates for the position here. (OK, I know that everybody who reads this thing doesn't live in America. Just go with me here.)
German companies are required by law (I'm sure there's some information about this on the web, but, really, do you care?) to have councils of workers -- hence the name "workers council" -- who serve as a sort of union representative, mediating between the worker bees and the queens. The candidates for positions on the council have been parading in and out of my office for the past few days, handing me flyers and asking for my vote.
Now, I'm no expert on politics or anything, but I figure you're doing a pretty poor job of campaigning when you don't realize at any point during your get-out-the-vote spiel that you're delivering it to someone who doesn't really speak your language.
My understanding of German is actually pretty good, enabling me to figure out what the candidates are saying and respond ("ja," say I, while trying to project some sort of "I am not the voter you seek"-type vibe) in an more-or-less appropriate fashion. But I have some sort of mental buffer space: After about three minutes of listening to German, the buffer overloads and I end up smiling and nodding randomly.
I've only had one candidate who's actually noticed this, forcing me to fess up to the fact that a) I'm American; and b) as a short-term employee I can't vote. The others simply tromped in, shoved badly-designed pamphlets at me, nattered for a bit and left. I'm not actually complaining about that, mind you: The one guy who did strike up a longer conversation felt that a helpful campaigning tactic would be to explain why employers in the United States are all evil and must be destroyed. Now, I've have individual bosses who I'd cheerfully coat with honey and stake over a fire ant nest, but everybody? That just seems to be taking it too far.
I wonder when the next election is and if they have any campaign finance guidelines. If I'm around, I think I'll run for a position; all I need to do is accumulate a batch of soft money, run some cool television spots and dazzle the workers with proper campaign rhetoric -- I'd end up running the place.
Bwahahaha!
So what do you want to do tonight, Tim?
The same thing we do every night: Try and take over the German publishing industry!
It does have a ring to it, nein?
posted at 6:21 PM by Timothy J. Gibbons | link
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Monday, March 25
My leg looks like a chunk of raw meat that a particularly sadistic chef with a loathing of animal products -- a vegan Emeril with a hangover, if you will -- took a tenderizer too.
But, dang, was it fun getting it in that shape.
A few years ago, I started hanging around with some lunatics who feel the epitome of a good time can be experienced by wearing several pounds of metal while holding a road sign in one hand and a broomstick in the other and having some other lunatic club you around. Oddly enough, I think they're right: It didn't take long for me to become a full-fledged SCA member, complete with sword, shield and funky lookin' clothing.
When I moved to the East Kingdom from Trimaris ... eh, to New York from Florida, I was able to attend a few fighter practices, but, for the most part, I haven't gotten a chance to have somebody smack me around for almost two years. (Well, there is that one place down on the Reeperban -- but the cover charge is kinda steep ...) So when I moved to Hamburg and discovered a group here, I was quick to jump aboard. This weekend, several of us headed to Heidelberg, where I got to experience my first SCA-Europe event.
Getting ready for the weekend had its own interesting moments. I hadn't brought any of my armor with me, mainly because I couldn't quite picture the scene at the airport: "Why, yes, Mr. Security Agent, that is a rather large mace -- but, look, it still fits nicely into my carry-on bag!" While I don't mind being beaten about the head and shoulders with large sticks, I prefer to be wearing a helmet and standing on a field while it happens, not curled up in a fetal position in an airport security office.
Instead, I somehow talked my sister into lugging my helmet across several time zones when she came to visit, badgered other lunatics in Hamburg into lending me some of their stuff and ended up cadging even more equipment from none other than His Royal Highness, the king of Drachenwald. (Hey, I thought it was cool -- nobody's saying you have to be impressed.)
That left one piece of equipment that, well, you really can't borrow: a cup. Between years of karate training and my time in the SCA, I've grown quite aware of the importance of sticking a piece of hard plastic down your pants when you're in the presence of people bent on whacking you with something. In fact, just for safety's sake, I sometimes wear a cup just during normal times. It's amazing how much more freely one can shoot off one's mouth when so equipped.
Unfortunately, I hadn't brought this vital piece of gear along with me, so I was forced to comb through the wilds of German commerce in search of one. (Like I hadn't had my fill of that ...) Again unfortunately, I didn't have the foresight to look up the German word for "groin protection."
Me: Ehh, sprechen Sie Englisch?
Clerk: A little
Me: Do you have athletic protectors?
Clerk: Like for rollerblading?
Me: No, I mean for the lower part of your body. (I wave my hands around below my waist.)
Clerk: Ah, yes, knee protection.
Me: No, no -- I mean a cup. (I make a cup with my hands.)
Clerk: Oh, you mean for elbows.
Me: No, I mean this: (grabs crotch in what basically amounts to a universal sign of not-good thoughts)
Clerk: Unverschämt ausländisch Dumbkopf! (punches me in stomach and stalks off.)
After three or four rounds of that, I ended up finding a cup. It was good timing, because the punches were landing lower each time.
Although I was happy to have it, the cup didn't see much action this weekend, since most of my opponents chose to confine their blows to one particular section of my left leg -- hence the hamburger effect. Nevertheless, I did win three bouts, fighting for the honor of my lady in a pretty good fashion. It was worth the occasional bruise.
And, heck, I should stop limping sometime before the next event. Maybe next time, though, I'll ask the other fighters to aim for the groin, since I have protection there. Yeah, that's a good idea ...
posted at 8:51 PM by Timothy J. Gibbons | link
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