Blog

and the Rockets red glare, as they fell through the air — gave proof for that night that we threw shots of air

My brother, Michael Knowles, and my friend Cay (Cathryn Cummings) and her brother Scott were all disappointed with the Houston Rockets poor showing last night, and I was similarly less than impressed.

I’m reminded of when they won their first of two titles, and I was teaching at a summer clarinet workshop — actually, I was helping a guy do his workshop (can’t even remember that dude’s name).

I was dancing on cars on 59 south in front of the Summit the night before, and then there I was in Klein or Spring the next morning pretending not to be hungover

The next year? I was on my way to Chicago, but I stayed in Houston one last night to watch them lose to the Spurs and make their second title all the more unlikely.

They won — beat the Magic in four, if I remember correctly — which was ironic, because that’s who beat us last night.

The friends who took us to the game were apparently tired after a long weekend, and we could all sigh as we hugged each other goodbye and headed for our respective cars.

The brother, who I only knew as a younger more serious version of my friend when we were younger, went onto seminary and now he serves at a church called Peace down somewhere in Pearland.

My friend, who I’ve been close to since she started giving me rides home in her dad’s old Mustang, has been there with me and for me since we were mere babes. Well, high school babes, but still babes.

My brother was probably watching the game at home and likely turned it off in disgust at some point in the 2nd or 3rd quarter.

It’s hard to do that when you’re in the arena where they’re actually playing.

However, the baby was irritable and I took my cue. I looked around the Toyota Center, smiled at all of my former fellow Houstonians and happily walked outside.

I got in the car and looked up at the city’s skyline.

My city.

The one where I’d been raised, where I’d slept on people’s couches until I was no longer welcome. The one where I slept in my car until the car didn’t run anymore.

The city we returned to from Germany in the mid 70s. Where the flavour of racism was still country fried and not yet so cosmopolitan as it is now.

I remembered the city in my friend Helen’s screenplay for that 90s film Reality Bites and all the true stories that actually made it into the movie.

Finally, I remembered my mother having brought us here, rather than going back to West Texas, where we were originally from, and this being the big city that everyone elsewhere complains about.

When I lived in Cincinnati, people from anywhere in the tristate area (Ohio, Kentucky and Indiana) complained about Cinti.

Where I live now? Munich might be a tourist destination, but it’s anything but beloved by many of the citizens of neighbouring villages. And don’t even get a Berliner or Hamburger started on what a non city Munich is.

It’s a ridiculous thing about humans, by the way. City people are this way and country people are that way.

Really?

Okay, got it.

How about we try this instead:

Most people from x are like y…wait, though. You can’t qualitatively say that, can you? It’s lazy rhetoric, even.

My family came from (seemingly) nothing and amassed a bit of dosh.

It’s being squandered, as we speak.

It’s what people do.

Someone dies, people either fight about or accept the wishes of the deceased and then they move on.

Period.

Oh, but wait.

Here’s where it gets tricky.

This part could be nice, but instead people let their egos rule this next part.

Who loved mom more. Who she preferred and how she showed her love.

My brother and I are fortunate in this respect. She might’ve had an amazing bond with me, but my brother Michael and I were each loved equally best.

We were encouraged to follow our passions, while my dad quietly insisted that we went to actual schools. He didn’t want me going to the music conservatory in St. Louis (even if it did have classes at Washington University), and it turned out he was right.

The music school would coincidentally shut its doors within the year, which proved my dad right without him having to say a word.

So, here’s the rub. They often were right. They knew what was best and they tried to say it in a kind and gentle way.

They weren’t perfect, though.

My dad looked at me as I was trying to start an exercise regimen, and he visibly scoffed.

He insisted, ‘Why bother? You’re just going to trail off and never jump rope again. Why even bother getting started?’

Great message, Dad.

Good talk.

Where’s Oma? Her progeny and namesake looking everywhere for the old lady — how we wish we could get her on the phone just one last time

My small daughter favours her Oma, which often confuses me in the weirdest moments. She’ll make a face that looks like her mama’s mama, but her whole demeanor and physical appearance is such a mix between my wife, Miriam, and my mother, Martha Frances.

As they say, she went to meet her maker a few weeks back, so I’m in Texas dealing with the fallout.

My brother, Michael, and his wife, Sara, and their kids have done so much that Miriam and I are at mom’s house wondering how we can be useful.

One thing I’ve decided is to organise her books. Some I want, but honestly? How many copies of ‘Liturgy for Living’ does one really need? I’ve got one now, if you’d like it. You may have it.

While I respect and honour my mother and her work, I don’t quite understand most of what her books had to do with her actual life. It’s too big a question to answer here, and to be candid even positing the question properly would take a lot of time.

Instead I’ll focus on the books I did find. She assured me while I was on the phone in Munich and she back here in Houston, that she wasn’t afraid of dying.

She insisted she had a few years left if not more. Even the second to last time we spoke, I said goodbye and had the weirdest feeling it’d be the last conversation we had.

I told her, and she responded, ‘Oh, darling. It’s nothing like that. I’ll be here much longer — I’m already feeling better and you and your brother are overreacting.’

Famous last words, eh?

So the next day, she called and the baby was already awake. As was their custom, the baby took the phone and walked away so she could get some alone time with her Oma.

They went in the other room – my mom on the screen thanks to FaceTime – and they proceeded to enjoy each other’s company. My loving and sometimes gentle mother and her namesake an ocean away. Singing and cooing and just being really adorable.

Watching them together sometimes made me think of that scene in The Godfather whereMarlon Brando’s character plays In the garden with his small grandchild.

That was it, though. The phone call. Their, and I suppose our, last conversation. And my kid hogged the phone. She’s only one year old!

I miss my mom, but as soon as I write that I realise everything that comes out of my mouth next is palaver.

Clichés, if you will.

She’s in a better place.

She’s no longer in pain.

She’s finally able to be back with her family that she had missed so much.

I suppose all of those things are true.

I guess.

Somehow.

Yet it doesn’t stop me missing her. Wishing she could be here in person to delight in this beautiful child growing and learning.

I just want to open FaceTime and click on the little green button next to her picture I want to hear her West Texas accent answer, ‘Hello?’

Her voice gentle as I tell her one of my problems, stern if I admit Miriam and I’ve been fighting again, and hopeful when I speak of a new job or opportunity — her voice, that melodious and lovely sound.

How I wish I could just get her on the phone.

Hear her tell me again what she said nearly daily for almost fifty years. Hear her once again profess her love. Once again say it and expect me to say it back, which often annoyed me.

That manipulation. You just told me you love me and now I have to say it back? Why? Every time?

The protestations of a recalcitrant teenager, right? Right.

Say what you want, but I’ll leave this with one last thing. I’ve got few regrets in life, but now I wish I’d responded better to her love. Wish I’d seen it it for what it was.

Her very best. All she could give. All she could manage. Sometimes not up to my standard. Often not the kind or flavour of love I demanded.

Wish I could hear her in person or on the phone assure me of her love. Wish I could say it back.

One last time.

Just one last time.

losing what little grasp of reality I still had, while God was quietly laughing

focus on where you want to go, not where you are

You‘ve got a plan? Really?

Good luck with that.

When I was a teenager, my only two goals in life were not to be an alcoholic like my dad and to avoid English teaching.

Like my mom.

Guess what.

Since moving back to Germany in 2001, after living here as a small child, and finding out my clarinet playing wasn’t an option anymore (the Germans play a different system of clarinet apparently), I had to find a new career.

And start drinking, of course.

When in doubt, drinking is always an option. It takes the edge off. Makes you tolerable. Made me tolerable, at least. Or so I’m told.

Until it didn’t.

About to celebrate another not drinking anniversary and to be blunt, it’s about the best decision I’ve made up until now.

Not judgmental about others and their drinking, at least I try not to be, but for me it just wasn’t working anymore. I was losing what little grasp of reality I still had.

While God looked on. Quietly.

Now? My relationship with reality? Not so good.

As my alcoholic dad used to say:

‘Oh well.’

I wasn’t going to write about this, but then I read something and it touched me.

At that point I thought, ‘Oh, jeez. Am I really going to blather on about something as dreary and boring as how I used to be?’

Apparently I am.

I drank so poorly while back in Texas, that I was banned from quite a few of my favourite drinking establishments.

After driving my 1985 diesel Daimler into the front of a cafe in the Montrose, I apparently offended some of the patrons, as well as a friend of the owner.

A few months later, that same friend happened to be drinking at Valhalla, on the campus of Rice University, and announced in a loud voice as I entered, ‘If that guy’s allowed to drink here, I’m leaving.’

Notorious isn’t the right word.

Sad.

I was sad. And sad to watch, purportedly.

As my car deteriorated, while parked in the Fiesta parking lot at W. Alabama and Dunlavy, my closest friends drove by and often considered how I could be helped.

I couldn’t be.

Their help I wanted was for them to spot me a tenner, so I could get some Shiner Bock and a fifth of whiskey.

Incorrigible.

Hopeless.

Without a rudder.

Back to how I began this whole thing.

My plan?

Not to start drinking again, that’s for damned sure.

I’ve been trying for nearly twenty years to move past English teaching as a job thing.

Have worked as a translator, journalist, Texter (as the Germans call a copywriter), dog trainer, babysitter, patent law clerk, stage hand, personal coach and I even spent a few hours doing Premier League colour commentary for an online betting company.

That was a lot of fun, to be honest.

All of it while not drinking.

Now?

I get gigs for translation, and at this point the odd opportunity to write an article comes along rarely.

An editor reaches out and asks if I can write about Pegida or some such nonsense — I always try to be available for such things. They normally fall apart before they ever get out out of the negotiation stage.

Am I difficult? I don’t think I am.

Ask my wife.

Wait, don’t ask her.

Ask my dog instead. She thinks I’m great.

Or she used to, I should say.

Some unemployed people say they’re ‘between jobs’.

Instead, I’m between dogs.

It’s miserable.

So? What’re you gonna do?

Good question.

You tell me.

Maybe write a book. Who would even want to read such a thing?

Maybe go back to northern Spain to walk the Jakobsweg.

Perhaps Miriam, the progeny, our new dog, and I should just go permanently back to our place in Italy and just enjoy the good life.

Make a plan and God laughs.

Sometimes louder than other times.

Can you hear him laughing now.

Softly.

Faintly.

It’s there if you listen.

He’s got quite a sense of humour, that God.

I don’t put anything past him.

That God.

Which side are you on? I used to play for the Dark one, but I’m more and more Jedi the older I get

My brother Michael and I both love Star Wars, but he’s much more obsessed than I’ve ever been. It’s one of his many obsessions, while another that fascinates him is history.

He’s a clever guy, which means you can easily get into a long discussion with him about the newest movie. Or one of the old ones.

We saw the very first of the now 9 or 10 films back in 1977 at the Shamrock Cinema in Houston. I vividly remember that day/evening, because once again we were late.

We were always late in those days. Somehow we got there to the cinema. Somehow. They let us go in late and then stay for the 2nd showing.

So only then did we know how the movie actually started.

As a child, I thought the Dark Side had a lot more to offer. Only with a lot of time and a bit of wisdom have I finally realised that the Dark Side is hypocritical to its core.

I assumed as a younger person that the American government must’ve been the rebels, but I’ve luckily had a change of perspective. In this 21st century, we Anglo Americans are simply the Empire. No matter what you say.

It’s another inconvenient truth. Sadly.

You had a raincoat? and other obvious questions

our fair city on the banks of the River Isar

Good morning 2020 (written early New Year’s Day morning). What a wild ride it’s already been, and I’m still in my pyjamas.

My mother, who’s nickname when she was young was ‘Fafa’ so that’s what I call her here, and I have talked briefly, which because of the time difference between here and the States means it’s still yesterday there.

My sister-in-law and I also had a meaningful, end of the year conversation a little while ago in which we talked about her husband/my brother and what he was like as a child. That was something.

We also talked about me, which is unfortunately still one of my favourite subjects, and she had some insight about all of that, which I appreciated. All of that, you ask? All of what, exactly?

Well, this is the first time in almost twenty years that I haven’t had a dog to walk on New Year’s morning. You likely know of Ella and Louis, but before them there was a girldog named Lyle. She came with my first wife and me from the States, when wee moved here to Munich in 2001.

She was my only real responsibility as I was getting my bearings in this curious new land. German culture was weirdly unfathomable, which made no sense because I’d lived here as a small child. I’d learned to play German music and even sang in the godforsaken language before I understood what I was singing about. Nevertheless, I felt odd and like an outsider.

That first year, I drank too much Augustiner and Austrian Veltiner, I smoked my Gauloises, and I walked my dog. It was all pretty straightforward. Below is a photo of my friend Elaine’s dog, Poppet, and me in Tottenham. Well, it’s our shadows. When I’m without a dog, I greet every single one I see. Right now, I’m meeting a lot of dogs.

Poppet’s and my shadows…

Here’s the story I want to tell today, and I assure you that there’s a moral. I’ll be explicit, rather than make you guess what my motive is.

It’s about gratitude and perspective.

A woman told a few friends and me a disheartening story about her horrible childhood and how she always felt like an outsider. She could’ve been telling my story, but that’s beside the point. ‘It’s not always about you, Ken.’ Yes, I get it.

She told us about standing in the rain in her raincoat and looking up at the sky and somehow, in her childlike wonder, asking what on earth the reason for everything was. Asking God or the universe or whatever was out there why she was even here. Why did she even exist? What was even the point?

Aphrodite and the setting sun

After my friend told her story, we were all really quiet. It was so depressing that we were simply mute. Until one quiet voice meekly asked, ‘You had a raincoat?’

The raincoat obviously wasn’t the point of the story, but clearly the woman who was almost afraid to ask her question must’ve had an even worse childhood. For her, the mere shelter from the rain was absolute and utter luxury.

I try to remember that everyone I encounter could be dealing with trauma that he or she doesn’t even want to think about. It’s a trick I use to be more compassionate. Sometimes it works.

Sometimes I forget. My New Year’s resolution this year is not to forget.

I should be more compassionate. Especially to those who’re in my inner circle. They very well might get my best, but they simultaneously get the worst of me, as well.

I resolve to give them more of my best. A lot more.

Natural order & how I got to Germany

my boydog Louis wasn’t even embarrassed

If you’re new here, this blog is purposeless. Truly.

Essentially I’m writing to eventually connect with potential clients.

Or to be more clear, they know me elsewhere or meet me at some networking event, which I despise by the way, and then we connect on LinkedIn or tumblr or some other stumbling social media site and then at some point they google me or actually read my card and go to my website.

So connecting with clients isn’t the point exactly. Having content here is what matters. Then they see it and they hire me for some work.

Weirdly, it happened this week. A guy for whom I normally do translations, told me he liked my writing. Seriously, it was that out of the blue.

I thought my audience was Jarrod & one, if not both, of my twin cousins Carrie and Crissi. Is anyone else really reading regularly? Oh, Josephine in Perth. She reads a lot. Sometimes the blog.

If I know Josephine, she probably reads whatever I write. I used to write a lot about tea. Even had a tea blog.

She didn’t even like tea, but she read that blog. Weird, huh?

Sometimes I’m busy translating or teaching, and there’s no way to manage blogging, as well.

It’s just how it is.

Yet blog I must, so…

Here’s another post. On my miscellaneous blog, which just keeps going and going. Without much noticeable purpose.

Aside from the client thing I mentioned.

Not to get off track here, but somebody asked me to blog about how I got to Germany. Seems like a weird question, but I’m nothing if not amenable. Ask your questions and I’ll answer them in a timely manner.

Ask them in the comments. Not the godforsaken Feckbook comments either. Comment right here on the blog.

Like a civilised person.

Were you born in a barn. Jeez!

So, back to your question, whoever it was.

How did I get to Germany? On a plane of course. What kinda question is that?

Have always wanted to take a boat, but haven’t managed it.

Yet!

So, what else?

Oh, boydog Louis. In the photo above. His sister was cleaning him in the photo.

Any of us would’ve been mortified to have our sister licking our nether regions out in public.

Not my Louis. No way.

He let it all hang out.

What I’ve done since the last time I blogged (last week just before #DigitalFreeSunday) – a long strange trip it’s been

It’s been another hell of a week, but I knew it was coming. So I planned accordingly.

Quite a few things fall by the wayside when my life gets too busy, but the first thing’s blogging.

I’m still writing, of course. Both professionally and privately. I’m working on a project right now that’s a dating book. Not kidding either.

My friend wrote a book, that I helped him on, and it did so well, he’s writing another. It’s a trip, actually. A long strange one.

To be candid, I should be over there working on his stuff right now. Instead I’m here – telling you about my crap week.

After my emo tirade last weekend, in which I created a title with predictive text. now I’m just purposely making weird hashtags in order to maximise the SEO and all that.

See, I purchased a book about becoming an awesome blogger, which I am not.

Most certainly.

Not.

It said to use a lot of #hashtags that my reader could find me.

Tell me, dear reader. Did you find me via #hashtags? Or do we know each other in real life.

The book also said comments are important. I don’t know why comments are so valuable. Is this a dialogue? No, it is not.

I’m a benevolent dictator here at the miscellaneous blog, but I’m not too benevolent.

The right amount of benevolence is what I preach here.

However, the book informs me that comments mean people are engaged with the blog.

Please don’t become too engaged with the blog, though. Please.

Leave your little comments and be on your way. You’re testing my benevolence, by the way.

This online marketing lark has been just that. A long trip going apparently nowhere.

Signifying nothing. A long strange trip, after all.

(This post is dedicated to Phil Leah)

Hahahahaha … you know how to make a nice shot and you can get a better place for it

Help me find Paco

That title is completely computer generated. Just typed ‘Hahahahaha’ in & then used predictive text to create it.

Someone told me recently that nobody read content anymore. It was a graphic designer or website builder, so it’s clear they’ve got another agenda than I do.

Why even write.

A blog? Really?

It’s 2020 — who writes blogs anymore? Who even reads anymore?

Really.

Why is there a photo of the Dom in #Wuerzburg?

No reason.

To point out the futility of all of this.

Do we really need more content?

Really?

I doubt it.

A lot of Sturm & Drang, and none of it makes much difference. Prove me wrong.

Continue reading “Hahahahaha … you know how to make a nice shot and you can get a better place for it” →

getting the band together again

in sunnier times

Jarrod’s not playing, so it might be weird to keep calling it Old Braunfels. Who knows, though. It’s a good name for a band in Munich, whose members predominantly come from Texas.

Playing the guitar surrounding by sixties design wallpaper in Lisel’s front room

However, we’ve got something else going on and Vancouver Michael will most likely have a considerable impact. Nina Kuhlig, who you might remember from the Blue February show two years ago will sing some originals, as well as one or two classics.

Have you ever noticed that the best songs tend to be sad and full of human suffering? We’ve noticed it, as well. We LURVE those songs.

The evening will be chock full of melancholic love songs. We’d love to have a place for lonely Valentine’s to congregate and revel in their plight.

We might even be able to entice Carlos Köhler, who was with us a few years back, to bring his bass up on stage and play with us. He’s one of the best local bass players I know, so it’d be a treat. We’ll see.

You want to see it, leave a comment below with your email and we’ll put you on the mailing list. Check it out!

we’re getting the band together again