The shows in my mind

It's the end of the world

2009-11-14T10:17:00.005+01:00

I haven't written anything here in over a month. Instead I have focused on fiction, and have written quite a bit, to my surprise.

So I have decided to close the shutters on the window into The Shows in My Mind. For now at least. Why keep a blog if I never write here? I may open it back up at some point, I may not. Time will tell.

Thanks to those who have read and commented, though there weren't that many of either kind.

Things change. Some things disappear, others appear.

Not only am I closing the blog, but my writing group may be disintegrating as well. For three years now there has been a core of people around which others have come and gone. Could Be King, the only published fiction writer among us, has changed jobs and won't have time to focus on much else besides writing his next novel. Finally Has A Kid finally has a kid, and will be spending most of her time being a mom.

We will try to keep meeting after the last scheduled huddle in December, and I dearly hope we can keep going. The writing class as well as the online community that followed it has fallen apart, so the huddle and my cronies are the only group I have to fuel my inspiration in the way that only fellow writers. Plus its a nice feeling to go there and feel inadequate too...

So. Bye for now. I will still be watching the shows in my minds, and I hope you will be watching the ones in your mind.

I don't have a TV now, but that's okay. The shows in my mind are almost always better.
- The Maxx, episode 1

Home sweet home

2009-10-11T18:50:00.001+02:00

I arrived back in Sweden last Saturday. The jetlag wasn't too bad, I was back on track in two days. Went back to work on Wednesday, where several people told me I looked really calm. One colleague wanted to rub up against me twice a day to absorb some of it. Sort of like rubbing the belly of a Buddha for luck.

My hope is that this zen-like trance will last at least a week. On Wednesday it felt like I was a spectator, watching from outside as others ran around like headless chickens in the office. A smile on my face all day long.

Something which didn't put a smile on my face was my grandfather passing away on October 1st. Olov Larsson, the rock of my family, was finally eroded by the river of life to a point where he fell apart. Everything points to him going quietly, just going to sleep, which is a relief. He was 98 years old, had spent the last few months in a care facility and refused to eat for the past few weeks, so no one is surprised he passed. Still, I'll probably cry like a baby at the funeral. 'tis what I do. I'm thinking about buying a pipe to leave instead of flowers. I think he would have liked that.

Stop eating fruits, stop eating vegetables, it's doing something bad to you. Fruits and vegetables will seduce you, like a woman

2009-10-02T11:47:00.007+02:00

Some final impressions of Kuala Lumpur. My cab for the airport leaves in a few hours, and I've spent the day doing some last minute shopping and now just hanging out at a café with the laptop and a lemon ice tea, watching people walk by. I'm actually sitting outside, on a roofed patio, so no AC but plenty of fans around.

Began my day with the usual killer breakfast. Perfectly scrambled eggs, beef bacon, a waffle and heaps and heaps of fresh fruit.

The remains of the fruit table at breakfast after my meal
I did another walk through Sungei Wang. Now, there are a lot of shopping malls in downtown Kuala Lumpur. Not be missed are Plaza Low Yat for electronics, Suria KLCC at Petronas Towers for just about any kind of shopping (but especially for the huge bookstore on the top level) and Pavilion if you want designer brands and those Japanese pastries. I haven't even checked out a few, like the even more upscale Starhill Gallery.

The best one though was Sungei Wang. It's a warren of stores and small restaurants, that gets more interesting the higher you get. On the top floor you can get a tshirt or a top for 10 ringit, about 20 kronor, as long as you don't try it on. There was a big arcade hall, with rows of old school fighting games, most of them completely incomprehensible. Young men hunched over the games or standing around, smoking, their hairdos like something out of manga. This is where they go to kill digital things when they don't find that graphics card they were hunting for at Low Yat.

The best store by far, for me at least, was street wear store Echo Park, which was also in a couple of other malls that I've been to. I now have a membership card there for some obscure reason that I really wasn't able to figure out from what the guy working there told me.

Lunch today consisted of fried dumplings, one serving with veggies and one with mystery meat. When I ordered the ten dumplings the waitress looked at me, confused, and said "Is all?". I nodded yes, is all. She made a face and walked away.

This reminded me of the Mexican place where my brother, my parents and I ate somewhere in the middle of nowhere in the US back in 2005, where the staff seemed to mock us in Spanish when we only ordered one dish each. Around us, 300 pound Mexicans that had tables full of food. So I looked around at this place too, and noticed tiny Malaysians with three or even four dishes each, with rice on the side, and here I had only ordered two. The dumplings arrived, with a side of chili sauce you could strip paint off boats with. There was also a small dish of thin yellow slices that smelled slightly lemony. Turned out it was pickled ginger that made the chili sauce taste like water by comparison. I had to eat an ice cream afterwards, and my tongue is still sore. I ate the stuff four hours ago.

Evil in food form in the middle above the plate

Then I took yet another walk to Low Yat, where I picked up some more electronics plus a killer action figure to soothe my inner not tech-geek.

Bob wasn't sure the makeover had gone all that well
As I walked out a guy passed me on a moped wearing a Darth Vader helmet. Literally. A shiny black Darth Vader helmet. He was too fast so I didn't have time to get the camera. Then the bizarreness continued as I walked past a sign advertising STD Calls. Is that the really bad version of a booty call? I tried to take a pic but the store manager came storming out, shouting at me, so I walked away. Last thing I needed was to be wrestled to the ground by someone advertising STDs...

And then I got to confuse three young Muslim men. Over the past few days quite a lot of Muslims have nodded at me or said hello. 'tis the beard. Now three twenty something men walked by, looked at me, and then one turned around and said "I'm sorry, you are Muslim?"

"No", I replied, to which he said "So sorry for bothering you." I smiled, said "No problem", and then "As-Salamu Alaykum". They all stared at me and then walked away. Win.

One night in KL and the world's your oyster

2009-10-01T18:36:00.004+02:00

Last night in Kuala Lumpur. Tomorrow I go back home, flying out at 2355 to Amsterdam where I transfer to Stockholm. Why the transfer you ask? Mister Control Freak here booked in March, shouldn't he have been able to book a direct flight?

See, I did. I booked a direct flight from Kuala Lumpur to Stockholm. However, those Malaysian Airlines flights have only been half-full, so over the summer Malaysian decided to stop the Stockholm flights from October 1st. Tomorrow is October 2nd. Hence the transfer in Amsterdam. Bastards.

Just finished packing everything, except my carry-on which will hold laptop, some other fragile electronics and stuff I need to get throught the flight without going postal. I will also carry a paper bag with some toys. Yes, toys. I may have passed my sweet sixteen twice over, but I'm still a kid at heart. Or wait...is that geek at heart? Either fits. So yeah, toys. One or two for me, one for a friend who doesn't know what he's getting. Eh, Steelwheels?

I was worried I would go over 20 kilos for my two bags, plus five for the carry-on. However, unless the scale in my room is lying (which might be a possibility) I am still a couple of kilos short. Which is a good thing, since excess weight costs 450 kronor. Per kilo.

Earlier today I almost perished in the heat. In two different ways. First I walked from the Suria KLCC mall to Ampang Park, to meet the tailor that did two pairs of pants for Mah Girl, and then back. In 37 degrees, the air like lead weights on my head. Horrible. Smoothies in two places, one pineapple, one pineapple/star fruit helped.

I really can't get enough of those buildings. Or the beard

The second death, narrowly avoided, came when I was walking down the street gawking at skyscrapers and almost fell into a hole in the ground. Now there would have been a spectacularly bad way of ending a trip.

Hans Moleman was having an open house

Since the flight leaves at 2355 tomorrow, I have a lot of time to kill, and since I can't hang out at the hotel room after 12, I will probably try and find some air conditioned place to read and write. Oh yeah, and go out to buy a toy and a portable hard drive.

The facts about food and cooking can be learned and understood by anyone with good sense

2009-09-30T17:53:00.000+02:00

As with most of my vacations, food has been a big part of this trip. I've done my best to avoid Western cuisine, since a friend who lived in Malaysia informed me that they can't really cook that here. He was right.

What has been good, other than the stuff already documented here, has been local food. Or rather, Asian food of various sorts. Fresh, lots of taste, cheap. Good combination.

The breakfast buffet at the hotel is also good. Cooks in hats and aprons so white it hurts your teeth that make your eggs just the way you want them. And pancakes and waffles, for that matter. Excellent service at the table, almost too frequent, and a fantastic table of fresh fruits.

However, I have been longing for a more authentic Malaysia. Jalan Bukit Bintang, the street my hotel and several of the shopping malls are on, could be the Strip in Vegas, if you threw some dilapitated buildings in the mix and had a bunch of mopeds and piece of shit taxis driving down the street. I've wanted dirty back streets with hole in the wall restaurants, and admittedly I haven't really looked for it.

Today when I walked out of Plaza Low Yat I ended up on just such a street. Throngs of locals and tourists drinking beer or eating noodles, while a band played Smokie's "Living Next Door to Alice", standing on the sidewalk, amps and all. It was like something out of an Asian Twin Peaks, including the midget who was wearing red but didn't talk backwards. That I heard.

I'm going back there tomorrow night, to take pictures, eat and socialize with the locals.

Shopping bugs me, for metaphorical reasons I'm sure, because in life as in shopping, you go in looking for one thing

2009-09-30T15:38:00.004+02:00

I'm all shopped out. I didn't think that was possible, but I am. My head is all numb, my feet are throbbing, my shoulders hurt after lugging a backpack full of electronics and writing material around all day.

Seated now at the Hub Café, nestled within the insanity that is Plaza Low Yat, six floors of geek nirvana with dozens if not hundreds of places selling laptops, video games, printers, anything with a USB plug, servers, etc. And so many geeks. They're everywhere, young Asian men with that empty look in their eyes indicating that they won't be happy until they found that specific graphics card that haunts them in their dreams.

This is how heaven appears to geeks

There are 19 wireless access points at this particular spot, 18 of which are encrypted. Geeks, you say? The last one belongs to the café.

In the center of all this gadget madness is a big place that sells action figures and nothing but action figures. Surprising, eh? If I have any room left in my bags once they're packed I'm so going back there to shop.

My plan now is to spiral down to the bottom of Low Yat, hunting for a meaningsless gizmo for a friend, and then hitting the hotel room for some well deserved R & R. Tomorrow, I will go back to the Kinokuniya bookstore at Suria to pick up some Daredevil graphic novels, and then pick up pants for Mah Girl. Other than that I intend to do as little as possible. Sleep in. Finish my book. Maybe, just maybe ride the monorail to see what all the fuss is about.

On Friday, I leave KL for the flight back to Stockholm via Amsterdam. The flight doesn't take off until midnight, so I'll have another day to kill. No more shopping. Maybe some sightseeing. Maybe a movie. Basically enjoying the last day of vacation. Though that's technically not true. I still have three and a half days off from work when I get back, to set the jetlag straight and just kick back.

Maybe it was because you were too busy eating twice your bodyweight in chocolate

2009-09-30T07:08:00.004+02:00

Last night I walked a bit further from the hotel, in a sort of loop out and over towards Petronas Towers. Insane traffic was braved (how come there are so few crosswalks here?), pictures of skyscrapers snapped, Swedish hardcore (as in hardcore punk, not porn) discussed.

I had two beers and a sandwich in Rum Jungle, where sharks swam in a tank above the bar, the staff practised their Cocktail bottle flipping skills and what sounded like a 45 rpm recording of a DJ talking being played at 78 rpm (yes, children, that is a vinyl record reference) over various 60s and 70s hits. Hell, the guy even sang along to most of it, through the mic. So weird. Also, the staff were wearing six pieces of flair each. They just weren't expressing themselves enough.

Kept walking and passed a karaoke place. Nothing to get you smiling like drunk sarari men belting out a truly horrific version of The Beach Boys' "Good Vibrations". The security guard at the door stopped me from taking pictures, pointing to a no photos sign. Oh well.

By the way. The Wikipedia entry for sarari man links, amongst other things (ege. Your word is amongst. Amongst), to here. Sad and interesting at the same time. Did you know that Japanese rail companies will charge the families of those who commit suicide in front of a train a fee depending on the severity of disrupted traffic?

Right now I'm in MOF, a Japanese café. I ordered a milkshake and a small pastry. My order unleashed a flurry of activity behind the counter. One guy did the shake, with the kind of meticulous attention to detail that characterizes most things Japanese. The result was not so much a milkshake as the idea of what a milkshake should look like. In the 50s, in an American Diner. Say, Jack Rabbit Slims.

The work that went into the shake was nothing compared to the pastry, though. When I ordered it I thought they only had the one, since there was only one in the glass top counter. I should have noticed that there was only one of every single pastry. So two guys in crisp white uniforms made my pastry. From scratch. It was sort of a waffle thingie, with chocolate filling. Mmm...filling...

The café is in Pavilion, a fairly upscale shopping mall. I managed to score a couple of sneakers for 200 kronor and some gifts for various people. I walked around and gawked in a very touristy fashion at ridiculously expensive art and furniture and home decor. You know, in the kind of store where the staff ignore you unless you walk in wearing a Saville Row suit, waving a big wad of cash around.

Interestingly enough, one of the most swanky art stores was playing Richard Cheese over their speakers. I wonder if it was ironic or if they really didn't have a clue.

Photography is the recording of strangeness and beauty with beguiling precision

2009-09-29T17:38:00.010+02:00

Go mopeds go!

Larry thought being out of focus was a pain in the ass

Average snack counter in Kuala Lumpur

No one was going to miss Daniel's cook colleague. Slice and dice

Blog owner photographed by Japanese geek.
Who looked at blog owner's camera with disdain

Optimus was outnumbered two to one

Dylan was pleased with how the Lego house took shape

Two quick things.

1. Skyscrapers rule
2. I sat down and spoke with some skateboarders today, after snapping some pictures of them. Turned out one of them was a huge fan of Refused, Millencolin and Breach. Good man. He wasn't on FaceBook though, so a pox on him.

Zombies pounding against the shopping mall's glass doors

2009-09-29T06:33:00.002+02:00

Poking around the center of Kuala Lumpur a bit more today. Only a high of 33 degrees today, the moisture is actually lower today and there's the occasional waft of air down the streets. Just as you start to imagine that maybe, maybe its a breeze it dies down, but still, better than nothing.

Began my day with the sumptuous breakfast buffet at the hotel. Waffles and an abundance of fresh fruit. Hallelujah, brothers! Then out into the hustle and bustle for shopping. People everywhere. My first stop was Isetan, a Japanese department store where I scored some shirts. As in "not tshirts". Actual shirts. Seems Japan is more of an XL and even XXL country than Malaysia. Who knew?

Now online from a café where I'm having some fruit juice while hugging the air conditioner. Soon more shopping, at two or maybe even three different malls. Looks like they stay open a lot longer here, so there's plenty of time. Stamina is more the issue, I think.

I found a Tower Records that had racks and racks of TV show DVD boxes, at very affordable prices. Unsure if they will play at home though. Does anyone know?

Shopping malls exist on the inside only and have no exterior

2009-09-28T12:09:00.000+02:00

Status report number one from KL.

This morning, 36 lovely degrees and 88 percent moisture. Beard + 88 percent moisture = epic fail. Around lunch, rain poured down in enough quantities to make little Malaysians run for the hills to construct Arks. Lovely.

The hotel is good. Certain parts, like my room, are kinda old, but not bad. Clean, all the comforts, good AC. A bunch of restaurants in the building. The room service menu looks mighty enticing.

Today I went a-huntin' for tailors, and found Fat Boy Tailors. Like it was made for me, eh? Then on to Berlaya Times Square, a massive shopping mall with a theme park in it. While sitting down for lunch I heard children screaming on the roller coaster. Scream, children, scream!

Fast food, Malaysian style

The plan is to go through two malls a day. My main problem will be to locate clothes. This ain't exactly an Extra Large country. My other problem will be managing not to spend to much money. Toys are everywhere.

If that ED-209 had been for sale, it would have been mine now

To be well-informed is to have the world at your fingers

2009-09-28T08:47:00.000+02:00

Things learned in the last 48 hours:
- Cape Reinga, the northernmost point of New Zealand, is frikkin' windy. I had trouble walking straight at times.

- Just because you have an SUV doesn't mean you can drive around on a beach any which way you want.

"Honey? I need to tell you something about your new car..."

- Toyota RAV4s are extremely popular in New Zealand for some reason. On the drive from my brother's place to the airport, which took maybe 30 minutes, I counted ten.

- There's a city outside Kuala Lumpur called Cyberjaya. Only in Asia would a place have the word "cyber" in its name. Its apparently a semi-failed attempt at creating an Asian Silicon Valley.

- Mopeds are popular in Malaysia. On the highway. Preferably with two people on.

- Keeping speed limits is a big deal in New Zealand. My taxi from KLIA into Kuala Lumpur did 100 kph on a 60 kph road. Marvelous.

And I don't know what is more scary. That the taxi driver had a 2 Unlimited ring tone on one of his four cell phones, or that I knew it was 2 Unlimited.

Quotes from my brother overheard in the last 48 hours:
- I have a feeling we're supposed to turn left. Or right.
At a T intersection in Whangarei

- It's very uncommon to see a road sign with distance stated on it in New Zealand.
As we're passing a sign that says "Auckland 164 km"

- Damn you!
After we have passed signs that say "Auckland 163 km" and 161 and 158 and 157 and 152. I was in tears.

Any landing that you can walk away from is a good one

2009-09-28T02:10:00.000+02:00

I don't like flying. I rarely sleep, even if the flight leaves late, and there's all that stuff that everybody complains about. Leg room, dry air, the noise, etc. However, I also don't like landing. At all. Seeing as how most accidents involving airplanes take place on take-off and landing, this may not seem all that strange, but it is to me. I'm mostly a rational person, and statistics like that really appeal to me and calm on a logical level. Here something else is at work.

This feeling of fear is often augmented by the fact that a lot of the time landings aren't exactly feather soft. With two notable exceptions.

When Mah Girl and I were in the States in 2008, we had two flights to get from Vegas to NOLA, and two more to get from NOLA to New York. On one of these flights, I didn't even notice we had touched down. Not a single jolt, and probasbly no noise from squealing tires either. It was like we landed on a big cushion. And also, last night. The landing in Kuala Lumpur was smooth and uneventful. Or maybe I was just sleeping...

More on KL later. I'm still trying to wake up and come to grips with reality.

I'm easy like Sunday morning

2009-09-27T20:00:00.002+02:00

I'm so easy. A few big riffs, a good voice and above all vocal harmonies get me every single time. And so it is, that we come to Burning Libra. Acquintances, a few of them, and my oh my how I've fallen for their song "Of the Essence". If I had to make a comparison, I would point to Onesidezero's "Is This Room Getting Smaller?".

And don't they look the part too?

Gulliver had a new career as a photographer

Behind the wall of sleep

2009-09-26T03:23:00.001+02:00

I snore. A lot. Enough for Mah Girl to once have hissed "Let's see how well you snore with a pillow shoved down your throat" when I woke her up at some ungodly hour. She claims not to remember having said so, but I know that burning hatred I heard then is only hidden in some locked backroom in her mind, the door to which can only be shattered by snoring.

While visiting my brother I have been sleeping on his guest bed, a hellish contraption that really has no business calling itself a proper bed. No, I exaggerate, it is a bed, though one that seems to have been built by people with a different opinion about dimensions and spacetime than us average mortals. It slopes down from the middle, in both directions. If I want to sleep on my left side, I need to be on the right half of the bed, face inwards. If I want to sleep on my right side I need to be on the left half, face inwards. There's no way to sleep on my back unless I want to feel like I'm strapped onto some torture device.

So, while here I haven't snored, not loudly enough to disturb my hosts anyway, who are in the next room with only a thin door separating us.

When we went to Wellington (wow, four... make that five words... make that six... that begin with w... make that seven... starting to feel like a Spanish inquisitor Python style here) I slept in a regular bed, and a queen size at that, so I had plenty of room to roll over on my back. I snored. A lot. Enough to make my brother resurrect a tradition that was spawned when we were in the US in 2005 and had to share rooms for almost three weeks.

This tradition has two versions. The first consists of him saying "Encarnacióooooooon" really loudly to wake me up. We watched a Marlins - Astros game in Houston, during which a spectator sat and taunted Juan Encarnación with just such a call, over and over. It was hilarious.

The other version consists of him saying "What are we gonna do tonight, Bwain?" and me answering either "Narf!" or "The same thing we try to do every night, Pinky. Try to take over the world!". This is a somewhat incorrect reference to Pinky and the Brain, an excellent part of the Animaniacs show. During the US trip I never managed to answer it correctly, but in Wellington I managed to groan "Narf!" before fading off to sleep again. My brother was very impressed.

Brain wasn't pondering what Pinky was pondering

All this confirms what the snore analysis I did a few years back said. I shouldn't sleep on my back. The doctor told me, after concluding he didn't want to carve up the roof of my mouth, that I should wear a tshirt at night, with a plastic ball sown into the small of its back, thus preventing me from rolling over on my back. Ouch. But might be worth seriously thinking about.

Also, he said I should lose some weight, which often is a reason for snoring. And whaddayaknow, I actually lost about 10 kilos over the last couple of months, through nothing more than shifting my breakfast habits and staying away from alcohol and most fatty foods. I haven't been closer to weighing less than 0.1 metric tons since I was 23 or so.

Though I'll probably put at least some of that weight back on during this trip. Oh well. I can always shift my food habits again when I get home. And maybe start walking some more. And maybe practice my couch potato skills less. Well, maybe the first two will be enough...

Knowledge is a wild thing, it must be hunted before being tamed

2009-09-25T02:22:00.002+02:00

Right, kids, sit on down while uncle Beard unveils fragments of another culture for you.

The Maori language only has 20 letters and digraphs. Thus, the same word combinations can have different meanings depending on, for example, the lengtening of vowels or emphasis on different syllables. For example, kia ora is both the traditional Maori greeting (sort of like "hello") as well as a more celebratory expression (like "great!" or "awesome!"), as well as other things. Read more here.

The Ta Moko, the Maori facial carvings, have deep significance for the tribes. On female chiefs, forehead carvings mark them as chiefs. Below their nose and on the chin the rivers, mountains and forests of that chief's particular tribe are described, showing the influence of the tribe. Likewise, the carved wooden idols of the different tribes also showcase the source of that tribe's influence, be it a mountain, a hill fortress, a bountiful river or their close connections to the English missionaries of old.

For male chiefs, the Ta Moko is all about ancestry. Their father's ancestry is carved on the right side of the face, and their mother's on the left.

There had never been an appropriate time to tell Donald he was adopted

And the Ta Moko is not really tattoos. Its more like scarification, the skin is carved at the same time as its tattooed. I'm going to try and find replicas of usi, the bone chisels used to carve, for my cousin who's very much interested in the art form of tattooing.

The funniest historical fact I learned at Waitangi was that in 1642 when Abel Tasman, the first Western explorer to find New Zealand, attempted to land he was met by Maori tribes, shaking their hands and weapons, chanting, tongues protruding. Tasman fled, fearing for his life. This was repeated several times as Tasman tried to land. Turns out what he saw was only a Maori greeting, saying "Hello. Welcome. What do you have to trade?". Had Tasman realised this, the Dutch may well have been the first Western nation to lay claim to New Zealand instead of the English.

The haka, the traditional Maori dance, was actually quite different a ways back. One form of haka was mental and physical preparation for battle, a way for the warriors to get ready for combat. It was very much an internal process, though performed in large groups. Many of the physical aspects of the haka that the All Blacks rugby team or Maori perform at cultural events comes from that greeting ritual that scared Tasman off, and the current haka is actually a combination of that greeting and the ancient battle haka.

Now, kids, I'm going to be nice and not give you homework. Off you go, you little rascals.

The history of man is a series of conspiracies to win from nature some advantage without paying for it

2009-09-24T10:48:00.005+02:00

Today I spent a few hours at Waitangi, the grounds where the Declaration of Independence of New Zealand was signed, as well as the Treaty of Waitangi, the treaty between the English and the Maori tribes. For the Maori, this is basically sacred ground, and it is the birthplace of the New Zealand nation as we know it.

Waitangi is situated by the Bay of Islands, four hours north of Auckland, on the North Island, next to Paihia, where I'm staying. All the little towns along the bay are ridiculously focused on tourism, and I have never seen so many hotels, resorts and bed n breakfast places in one place as there are in Paihia. Five, six, seven in a row on some streets. There is basically no other industry here except tourism.

To my eyes, Allegra House takes the cake. Along with a few other places its on the top of a massive hill overlooking the bay, and the rooms are excellent. Better than most of the hotels I've stayed in over the years, except for the insulation which, like the rest of New Zealand, is really bad. If you ever go here you could definitely do worse than staying here.

Allegra House on the right

I took a tour at Waitangi, which basically consisted of listening to a Maori guide speaking about the history of his people and the details of the treaty. We were seated in Te Whare Runanga, which is the only meeting house in New Zealand dedicated to all the Maori tribes. Usually they belong to one tribe or even one chief. Te Whare Runanga was finished on February 6th, 1940, exactly 100 years after the treaty was signed.

Lawrence's face paint session at McDonalds had gone horribly wrong

He also spoke of the history of the Maori, who arrived in New Zealand or Aotearoa (the land of the long white cloud) around 1000 years ago in large, ocean-going catamaran canoes. They had left their Polynesian islands with the express purpose of finding new land that could sustain enough people to found a new culture. Once they found Aotearoa they started calling themselves Maori and brought over more of their kinsmen. The south island was deemed too cold, and all the tribes except one chose the north island to settle on. The guide said "We tried convincing them it was too cold, but it didn't work".

I poked around the area a bit more, had kick-ass French toast for lunch and then walked back to Paihia, which was a fairly long walk along the beach and then up the hill where Allegra House sits. Now I'm looking forward to a quiet night in, with my laptop and my book and the TV. Tomorrow, depending on the weather, might be more of the same or another walk.

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!

2009-09-24T01:08:00.000+02:00

I figured I would reinforce the view that I'm a Cthulhian cultist (check the comments here) and post this (I would have embedded it if only Google Maps allowed me to do so in the fashion I wanted).

Once again this proves that the boys over at Google aren't quite right in the head, and therefore lovable.

The worst day at the beach is better than the best day at work

2009-09-23T11:45:00.001+02:00

Today I got on a bus in Auckland for the four hour journey up north to Paihia, to stay at a BnB run by relatives, look out over the ocean and read.

It was sort of unclear how we're related, until we sat down with some charts of our various families that they had compiled and had filled in by my parents when they visited a few months ago, and figured it out. The common denominator is two generations back from my grandfather, with the Dybecks. Back in the 1800s our common forefather Richard Dybeck wrote the Swedish national anthem, our family's only claim to fame.

The trip up here was cool. Winding roads up and down steep heavily forested hills, interspersed with vast green fields with sheep happily munching away. Like something out of Lord of the Rings. Oh, wait...

I wonder what this country looked like before the Maori (though they weren't Maori then, only becoming so after coming to NZ) and Cook came here, when it was all covered by bush. Dotted throughout the forest landscape along the road were ferns, some over 6 meters in height. Like something out of Jurassic Park. This must all have been very wild and untamed wilderness back then, seeing as how a lot of the country still is.

So now I'm at Allegra House bed and breakfast, a very modern building on a hill overlooking Paihia and the Bay of Islands. The view is spectacular. Too bad its pouring down. With a bit of sunshine it would be breath-taking.

Tomorrow a slow day, reading, writing, just kickin' back. Maybe a walk down to Paihia and look around. My brother is coming up on Friday, and we'll probably do some kind of tour on Saturday. On Sunday I'm leaving for Kuala Lumpur, and a completely different cultural experience.

Pornography: A two-dimensional substitute for that which the consumer cannot accomplish in three

2009-09-23T01:39:00.002+02:00

This morning on the news, the words "boobs on bikes" caught my ear. Boobs as in know-nothings? Boobs as in breasts? Either way, this was obviously news in New Zealand.

Turns out that today is the 7th annual parade of Boobs on Bikes, where a group of semi-nude women (strippers and porn stars, apparently) ride through downtown Auckland on motorcycles. Last year, an estimated 100 000 people came out to watch. In the middle of the day. What the hell? According to Wikipedia, this is done to advertise a pornography trade exhibition.

I wonder if this would even get a permission in Sweden? And if it did, I wonder how far they would get before angry feminists blocked the road? Different cultural parameters here, though they did say that protesters will be there.

On the news they had footage from last year's show, showing a women from behind on the back of a massive Harley driven by the archetypal biker, as they passed - not kidding - a construction site. Dozens of men in hardhats stood on scaffolding, leering down.

I find it fascinating when stereotypes are confirmed, or when people conform to stereotypes. In this case, three stereotypes. Adult film star, biker, construction worker. Well done to you all.

To refer to (part of) a statement that has been made by someone else

2009-09-22T08:43:00.001+02:00

The best quotes from the trip so far.

1. Drink, drive and die in a ditch
Sign by the road. New Zealand don't mess around with warning signs.

2. Excuse me but it appears that I have imbibed a touch too much tequila and my legs are no longer functioning as they should = Estoy hasta el gorro.
Part of the Spanish dictionary on the menues at The Flying Burrito Brothers. If you're going to Mexico, learn it well.

3. Why you stopping there for? Why you stopping there for? Hey! Why you stopping there for?
Just fuck you.
A taxi driver questioning our taxi driver's decision to stop in the middle of the road outside the train station to let us get out of the car. And his response. Not very New Zealand-ish.

4. It might be that they suddenly find themselves outdoors and in shorts, and start running to get inside and warm up.
My brother's theory as to why New Zealanders run around in a tshirt and shorts when its eight degrees outside.

Don't let the mystery go now

2009-09-21T14:25:00.001+02:00

Some Rings trivia for y'all. The film geeks among you may already know this, but whatever.

1. The first Orc Aragorn kills on Pelenor Fields is Viggo Mortensen's son.

2. Stuart Townsend was originally cast as Aragorn, and was in New Zealand when, according to IMDB.com, "after four days of shooting" he left the production because "they realized he was too young for the role". In fact, Townsend was kicked off because he was an arrogant bastard that didn't get along with the other actors and above all Peter Jackson. Has anyone seen him in anything memorable since then? No? Now isn't that a surprise.

3. Liv Tyler had some serious problems during the shoot. She couldn't handle a horse at all, and when she finally figured out how to sit in a saddle, she managed to stab her horse over and over while attempting to sheathe her sword. Her character, Arwen, was also supposed to be at Helm's Deep for some reason, and she was there to film it. However, when she fired her bow she kept letting go of the bow instead of the arrow, hitting herself in the face over and over. In the end, Weta Digital made her hair blond so Jackson wouldn't have to reshoot the shots where she's just standing there.

4. Sean Connery was offered the role of Gandalf, for a percentage of the profits. He turned it down. Had he accepted, he would have made 450 million New Zealand dollars (about 2.2 billion kronor) and counting. Good call, Mr Connery. He went on to do The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen instead (which I won't link to on sheer principle, since its such a horrid POS). Who else was in that movie? Stuart Townsend, ladies and gentlemen. Good choice to the both of you.

Anatidaephobia: The fear that somewhere, somehow, a duck is watching you

2009-09-21T05:38:00.002+02:00

Or is that window washer?

I was sitting in my brother's living room, in his third floor apartment, when suddenly a guy rappels down and plonks himself down on the balcony rail. No kidding. Rappelled down like he was spelunking (one of the best words ever, by the way).

Then he pulled a short fat rod from his back, extended it with a few expert clicks, flipped it around and aimed it at the glass balcony door, which was slightly ajar. I had the time to think "what the hell is going on?" before he pushed the door closed, and I realised the rod was in fact the handle of a mop.

He then proceeded to hose down the floor to ceiling windows and the door, used the mop to give them a good soapy clean, and then hosed them off again.

Now, how come we can't have that service in Sweden?

Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world

2009-09-21T00:41:00.006+02:00

Wellington was a blast. After the sightseeing, we went to a great Mexican restaurant, The Flying Burrito Brothers, where we had enchiladas, Monteiths Golden (good local beer), churros and chimichangas, and treated ourselves to a tequila tasting board each.

Tequila to me has always been piss-poor stuff that needs salt and lemon to go down, and hasn't been anything I've had on any kind of regular basis. This was completely different. Three different ages of the same tequila, one that burned, one that went down smoothly with a sharp licorice aftertaste, and one right in between. There's a place in Stockholm that specialises in tequila, might need to go there to do some research...

Then on Saturday we took a Lord of the Rings tour, going around Wellington and the surrounding area for four and a half hours. Turned out it was just me and my brother taking the tour, which was cool. We took in the locations for Helm's Deep, Minis Tirith, Rivendell and others.

Aragorn realised Aglarond wasn't exactly what it was cracked up to be

It would have been hard to actually see that the scenes had been shot there if the guide hadn't brought lots of film clips on his laptop where he could point out trees and rocks that were in the frame. He guided us to spots where we could stand and see the specific views the cameras had over the scene, and showed us plenty of clips in the van while driving around, setting it all up. Very effective. 400 kronor well spent, if you can live with forever seeing in which parts of the Minas Tirith scenes that Pippin is a doll.

The only real downer was that the previous day, when we went sightseeing on our own, we did have some plans to see some Rings sites, but realised they weren't properly marked on any map and so we scrapped those plans. Then we got a little lost, and had to pull into a parking lot to check the map and get our bearings. To our left a big white van was parked, and behind us, across the road, was a quarry. The next day we sat in that same van in that same parking lot while the guide pointed to that same quarry and said "Helm's Deep is right there". D'oh.

After the tour we spent the afternoon at the Te Tapa Museum, checking out exhibits of Maori artefacts, New Zealand art through the years and some natural history stuff (kiwis, wetas, whales, etc). I built a squid. His name is Beardonaut. Check out what he's up to here (click "Enter Squid's name" down the page).

The coolest thing was a Chinese earthquake catcher, constructed in the second century AD, which determines the direction of an earthquake through a pendulum within a large jar knocking a ball loose to fall from a dragon's mouth into a metal frog. Of course. Western science sucks.

Benji the frog insisted he could catch the ball every time. Liar

Saturday ended at the All Blacks vs Wallabies rugby test. Calling it a test is evidently important. Nation vs nation is a test. Team vs team is a game. This was New Zealand vs Australia, a real grudge match. I have just about zero experience watching rugby, and since I'm a football guy I really didn't know what to expect. It was faster than I had anticipated, and while a lot of the rules are as incomprehensible to me as football rules are to an outsider, I think I grasped some of it. Thirty thousand fans and a couple of beers helped put us in the right mood.

Bruce wondered why his mate's hand felt so good right there

And for any Americans or indeed football fans reading this, I doubt there's a single football player that could survive a rugby game, even if they did know the rules and had mastered the techniques. We felt some of the full on body hits up in the stands, and these guys make do without any gear on except a teeth guard and a cup.

Then yesterday we boarded the Overlander train and spent twelve hours going from Wellington to Auckland, the reverse version of the trip that took us fifty minutes on a plane. The landscape was spectacular, with wooded hills, deep valleys and snow-capped volcanoes. The trip was at least four hours too long, but well worth doing. Once.

Now I'm back in Auckland for a couple of days of just hanging out, before going up north to Paihia to stay at a BnB run by relatives, write and look out over the ocean. The next few days won't contain a lot of adventure, but I will probably write some anyway.

Next they're gonna give the Oscars in the parking lot. It'll be like a drive-through Oscar lane.

2009-09-20T11:18:00.003+02:00

Got back about an hour ago after a twelve hour train ride from Wellington. The first eight hours were cool, with some very spectacular views. The rest was mind-numbingly boring.

So my brain is too scrambled for a long post. Suffice to say that the Wellington trip was very good. More tomorrow.

I will leave you with this nugget of movie trivia. The Gates of Moria, the Dead Marshes and the scenes from flooded Isengard were all filmed in a parking lot on the outskirts of Wellington. Good bye, movie magic.

The traffic warden had a bit of an attitude problem

You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to

2009-09-18T08:03:00.004+02:00

Back at the BnB after a long day sightseeing around Wellington and its surroundings. We rented a car this morning, a POS Nissan for 200 kronor for the day, and then drove east and south, to take in the scenic routes along the coast.

It was very windy and cold, which was appropriate since we were at the ocean. The air smelled of salt, and at times I even tasted the salt on the winds. No rain, which was good, but it felt good to get back in the car every time we did so.

The sea was choppy and looked really cold and uninviting. Took some pictures of rocks and waves and houses up on the cliff faces above the coastline.

Coolest. Sign. Ever. No penguins about though

Then we visited Weta Cave, which was cool. I held on to my wallet with both hands, and managed to walk out of there with no more than a Hellboy figure and a little something for a friend. I had thought it would be exclusively Lord of the Rings stuff, but they had some things from earlier movies Weta has been involved with, like the ghost dog from The Frighteners.

It was unclear who was the Uruk-Hai and who was the Swede

Tonight, off to the Flying Burrito Brothers to eat and maybe taste a tequila or three. Tomorrow we're taking a four hour LOTR tour and then the All Blacks vs Wallabies game awaits. Probably no time to write tomorrow, and then on Sunday we're spending the whole day on the train to Auckland, so it might not be until Monday that I write again.

Winter is the season in which people try to keep the house as warm as it was in the summer, when they complained about the heat

2009-09-17T22:11:00.003+02:00

When we arrived last night, our BnB lady showed us the heater and its swanky controller, and said "You need to make sure the little sun is visible on the display, otherwise it won't work".

See, they can't isolate buildings worth a damn here. Single-paned windows, drafts everywhere, paper-thin walls. And why? As my brother put it last night, "They think they live on a tropical island". Which they don't. In no way, shape or form. Its spring here now, and last night it was around ten degrees, if that. I wore a hoodie and a beanie and was still cold. The beer helped, though. And the walking. All them hills, and we live at the very top of one.

Back to the heater. We got in last night, punched the correct buttons and went to bed. I woke up in the middle of the night, freezing. Luckily the duvet is about a mile thick, so I pulled it over me and went back to sleep. This procedure was repeated several times during the night.

This morning when my brother got up he pulled the control thingie from its place on the wall, squinted at it and said "Hey. This isn't a sun. Its a snow flake". Anyone surprised it was cold? Hooray for us.

We're supposed to be two fairly technical guys. Certain incidents involving microwave ovens spring to mind...

The world is a book, those who do not travel read only one page

2009-09-17T12:39:00.000+02:00

A wee bit drunk, on all of three beers, and sprawled on the bed at Booklover's BnB where we're staying during our visit to Wellington.

I think I entered Vacation Mode today. Partly this is because we went rafting yesterday, which was so outside my frame of reference it felt unreal, and partly because I've managed not to think about work today. Hooray!

We flew down today, spent about 45 minutes in the air which barely gave the cabin crew time to bring out the snack cart, and then enjoyed a taxi drive through Wellington to our BnB. The city has sort of a San Fransisco vibe going, with steep hills and plenty of small hole-in-the-wall bars. We had steaks and beer at a place called Coyote, where the drink list contained things like Cookie Monster, God Father and Quick Fuck, which contains Baileys, Kahlua and Midori. Not sure if that might be the most delicious thing ever, or liquid evil.

Tomorrow we're renting a car to drive around Wellington and surroundings for a while. Perhaps visit Helm's Deep and Isengard, and definitely going to Weta Cave, though that may be Saturday and not Friday.

I forgot my book, The Gum Thief, on the plane down, for some reason. We have a twelve hour train ride back to Auckland on Sunday, so I figured a new book might be a good idea. We found a big bookstore on a side street from the main drag in Wellington, which turned out to have a very well-stocked sci-fi and fantasy section. I wanted something new, so I asked one of the employees what I should get.

"What do you like?" he asked. I listed Gaiman, Gibson, Stephenson, Barker and Reynolds. According to my brother, the guy's smile got wider and wider for each name. "Obviously you're a man of good taste", he said, which is something I can't argue with. He proceeded to ask me if I had read some of the obvious stuff (Dune, Ender's Game, etc) and then pointed me to Peter F Hamilton. So now I have a brick of a paperback on the sidetable for the ride home.

Vacation Mode feels really good right now. Relaxed. Laid-back. I think I will be well rested, at least mentally, by the time I get back home. Shutting work out like this is absolutely necessary to mental well-being, or at least I think so. I hope this will be true for me in two and a half weeks' time.

The underground caverns, the booby traps, the skeletons, the monster, the lost treasure

2009-09-16T23:05:00.005+02:00

New Zealand is one of the premier places for adventure. Bungee jumping, sky diving, rock climbing, hiking, all are things associated with the Land of the Kiwi. Kiwi as in the bird, not the fruit, though this suggests otherwise.

Food prep, New Zealand style

I'm not much of an adventure person or even an outdoors person (shocking, I know), but I have been looking forward to the Waitomo black water rafting experience since my brother told me about it. You get in a wetsuit and helmet (not a small feat for me, either of those), sit down in an inflatable tube and then spend about an hour going through Ruakuri cave, both on foot and gliding across the water. It was an incredible experience.

Like I said, I'm not much of an adventure person. The Beard prefers quiet nights at home to jumping out of airplanes or skiing down slopes or mountain biking. I see why other people might find it interesting, but I'm not an adrenaline junkie and besides, you can get some exercise from doing those things. The horror.

So even though I was looking forward to it, I was a bit nervous. Turned out I had nothing to worry about, though the trek through the caves involved a bit more adventure than we had thought. At a few points we got to stand on cliff edges, backs facing out from the cliffs, tube around our asses, and then jumping off to land in the water two meters or so down. Exhilirating, but doable. The only scary bit was when we had to go through a really low passage.

Promo pic, but it gives you an idea. Nothing for claustrophobics

The best part was slowly guiding through the caves, headlights off, looking up at glow worms on the ceiling, which made it seem like we were floating underneath a starlit sky. Very solemn and mysterious. So much in fact that I couldn't stop myself from whistling the X-Files theme. Geeky, I know, but it had to be done.

In all, a magnificent experience, and if you go down here and don't have a real problem with darkness or confined spaces, you should definitely do it.

This is before the descent. Note the horror behind the smiles

Today, we fly down to Wellington for three days of sightseeing, rugby (All Blacks! Haka!) and visiting Weta. Not sure if the BnB where we're staying will have wireless, so I might not post anything here for a few days.

E iti noa ana, na te aroha

2009-09-15T07:26:00.003+02:00

Second day in Auckland, and I woke up at 0445. This was partly because of jetlag, and partly because of the fact that I had three beers with the mussels yesterday. After two and a half months without a drop of alcohol, I felt those three beers quite a bit when we got home last night. I always have trouble going back to sleep the day after I've consumed alcohol. I gave up trying to sleep at 0630, got up and spent a little more than an hour on the couch, reading John Ajvide Lindkvist's "Människohamn" (great stuff) until my hosts woke up.

I took the bus with my brother's fiancee this morning. She was off to work, and I rode along to go to the Auckland War Memorial Museum, which is less warlike than it sounds. Sure, they had some stuff about both World Wars and a lot of Maori weapons on display, but on the whole it was focused on Maori culture and arts, with a lot of side exhibits, including the unavoidable natural history museum dinosaurs. A nice mix.

The best part was the Maori Cultural Experience, which is a fancy way of saying we got to see some traditional Maori rituals, performed live. Lots of singing and dancing, various games involving sticks and staffs, and of course the haka. Very impressive, even though it was only three warriors performing with four women supporting. I wouldn't want to try and stand my ground against say a dozen or so Maori warriors. According to the guide, a well performed haka before a battle sometimes meant there was no battle, because the enemy were so scared of the Maori they just left the field.

Bob was so embarrassed by his friends, that he did his best to escape
But no matter how hard he flapped his arms, he couldn't take off

After the museum I walked around downtown Auckland for a few hours, did some shopping and just enjoyed the fact that I'm on vacation. Found some gifts for Mah Girl. On the way back to the apartment I went to Eve's, a sort of café that has all sorts of interesting cakes and pastries, and bought some stuff for dessert for tonight. Mmmm, unnecessary...

I've seen quite a few street racing cars here in Auckland. You know the type, monstrosities that are just as much about making the right sound as being able to go fast. Often with a twenty-something man behind the wheel, who is just as much about looking just so as being able to drive the car. My brother told me that a law has been passed whereby the police can stop someone if they have a street racey car and they either race the engine so it sounds loud, or if they do basically anything to draw attention to the fact that they're not a normal driver in a normal car. The owner of the car, regardless of if he was driving or not, gets a warning when this happens. The second time it happens, the police seize the car and crush it. That's right. Crush it.

That's one of the funniest things I've heard, ever. Can you imagine how one of those twenty-somethings would feel when he gets his pride and joy back as a one ton metal cube, where you can just make out the remnants of the chromed rims and a warped outline of a flame pattern? Hilarious.

And as a further side note. There's a wireless connection in the apartment complex here called Die Eier von Satan. Me thinkest there liveth a TOOL fan here.

Because first impressions...last

2009-09-14T12:10:00.003+02:00

Day one in New Zealand, because yesterday didn't really count.

My initial thought was "its like the US". This was mostly based on the sidewalks, which are made of the same sort of concrete slabs here as there. I think this was the jetlag infecting my brain, yesterday.

Her mortal soul is leagues behind her, being reeled in on some ghostly umbilical down the vanished wake of the plane that brought her here, hundreds of thousands of feet above the Atlantic. Souls can't move that quickly, and are left behind, and must be awaited, upon arrival, like lost luggage.
William Gibson, Pattern Recognition

Parts of my soul luggage has arrived today, though frayed and disorganised. Some pants missing. Or maybe someone else's pants mixed in with mine.

Those similarities I saw were only surface, attributes that are the only ones visible if you go by in a car, quickly. Or walk around jetlagged. Today I noticed differences instead.

Door locks turn the other way to lock the door. Away from the lock mechanism. Weird. People seem generally friendly, unlike the US where its mostly a frontand unlike Sweden where everybody hides behind walls of quiet politeness. Beer and wine is sold at the supermarket. Beer is about as expensive as in Sweden, which was a surprise. The tap water tastes of chlorine to me, so I have to buy the bottled stuff. And supposedely the water in the sink and the toilet twirls the wrong way, as Bart Simpson once found out. Haven't really checked that out yet.

Tonight was spent at Munday Mussel Madness at a local restaurant, where you get a kilo of mussels for 10 dollars, roughly equal to 50 Swedish kronor. A good deal. I had never had mussels before, so it was interesting. Not an awesome culinary experience by any means, but good food. Could have used more garlic.

The madness is a bit more evident than the mussels.

Tomorrow, exploring Auckland's downtown area, and going to the museum to see a haka. I'm planning on doing some reading and writing at a café or two. Vacationing at its best.

Oh. My brother and his girl recently got engaged. Apparently my mother screamed out loud when she heard the news. But no pressure on me, no no.

This moment was the apotheosis of the postmodern era — the era of images and perceptions

2009-09-14T06:53:00.003+02:00

I forgot to write something about 9-11, which wasn't all that strange since I was travelling on the date in question.

9-11 to me is the Kennedy assassination of our generation. Everyone in my parents' generation tend to remember where they were when they heard Kennedy had been shot, and most people I know can tell you how and where they found out that the planes had hit WTC.

I was at work. At the place I worked then there was always a TV on, up in one corner of the room. Often muted, sometimes with the sound on. No one had really explained what it was doing there, and I'm not sure anyone knew. I heard someone say that a plane had crashed into WTC, so I got up from my desk and walked over to see if I could get details. At the time I thought it was a one-engine Cessna or something, some rookie or suicidal pilot.

As I walked over I looked up at the TV, and watched live on CNN as the second plane hit the South Tower. That image of the plane hitting the tower, the ball of fire, debris spraying out in all directions, has etched itself into my mind.

I've read a lot of the conspiracy theories around 9-11. I've also read stuff that while not spelling out suspected government involvement in 9-11 at least hints at it. My standpoint is that I just don't know. I find it hard to believe that any government could murder so many of its citizens to justify, for example, the privatization of the military.

In September of 2000, The Project for the New American Century (PNAC), a non-profit organisation released the report Rebuilding America's Defenses: Strategy, Forces and Resources for a New Century, explaining their view on how America should develop their armed forces. In it, they write that "the process of transformation, even if it brings revolutionary change, is likely to be a long one, absent some catastrophic and catalyzing event – like a new Pearl Harbor". Jeremy Scahill writes about this in "Blackwater: The Rise of the World's Most Powerful Mercenary Army" (scary but necessary reading), and points out, like many others have, that the presence of private security companies within US armed forces increased significantly after 9-11.

I don't believe the conspiracy theorists that tells us that the events of 9-11 was engineered specifically for this purpose. That Erik Prince and other madmen were somehow involved. But you have to realise that a lot of these organisations, be they PNAC or Xe Services LLC (formerly known as Blackwater) or others, have some troubling ties to the Bush administration (check out this list), extremist Christian groups and other people whose opinions in no way, shape or form should be able to influence how the world works. Undoubtedly they have had a say in how more and more of America's defense budget is funneled into private military companies.

It would be nice if, as we've become quote more civilised unquote, the world has become a better place over the years, if we're talking about war and hidden agendas. After all, the Internet allows us unprecedented access to information and news, from a variety of sources, so we should be able to see through any subterfuge on that scale. The control of the news flow is no longer in the hands of the few.

However, it seems to have become worse and worse. I'm not really interested in politics, which to me is sort of a weakness, since it would give me at least the semblance of a grasp on How Things Work, but I know enough to know that a lot people are in it for themselves, regardless of whether its on a private or national scale. I have yet to meet or see a single politican that I trust. And this is in Sweden, where we don't bother with concepts like war or terrorism. I can't imagine what it must be like to live in the US and have opinions outside of the party line, so to speak.

Fatigue is the best pillow

2009-09-13T23:14:00.001+02:00

New things on the agenda. I knew we were going down to Wellington on Thursday, where we're going to a museum and renting a car to drive around the coast a bit. What I didn't know was that my brother had made more plans.

We're going to see All Blacks vs Wallabies. That is, New Zealand vs Australia, rugby. Black-clad tattooed men doing a wardance. Thousands of screaming fans. I'm not much of a sports person, other than NFL games, but large spectacles are always fun. Plus, you know, black-clad men doing a wardance.

We're also going to Weta Cave, special effects company Weta's store/mini museum. Very cool. Hopefully Muppets and Hellboy stuff in the gift shop. I might have to give my wallet to my brother to avoid spending too much.

Yesterday was all about staying awake. Tick tock, tick tock. I was moving between exhaustion and some kind of focused state that unfortunately didn't extend to motor skills. I managed to stay awake until nine o'clock, and then fell asleep about ten seconds after I put my head down. Woke up at 0120, looked at the time on my phone, and remember thinking that I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. Then woke up at 0445, phone still in hand.

Managed to get another two hours of sleep, and now I'm on the couch, laptop and book and tv remote within easy reach. Trying to level out, just relax and enjoy the fact that I have three weeks vacation left. Tomorrow I will explose Auckland's city centre, and Wednesday we're cave tubing. Beardonaut in a wetsuit. Horror of horrors.

Experience is the teacher of all things

2009-09-13T03:30:00.001+02:00

Landed in New Zeeland two hours ago. Now sprawled on my brother's couch, winding down. Soon a shower and then male bonding over rugby and beer. Mmm...bonding...

Ten things I've learned/remembered over the past 36 hours.

1. People I know pop up in the weirdest places. This time it was Set Himself On Fire, so named after an incident involving a can of gas. He has been off my social radar for quite some time. Turned out we were on the same flight, so we reminisced a bit over food and duty free shopping before boarding.

2. 11 hours in the air was less uncomfortable than I thought, but felt longer than I had anticipated.

3. In flight entertainment is the best thing to happen to flights, ever. Six movies, or at least parts of six movies, were consumed over two flights. And episodes of House, Big Bang Theory and 30 Rock.

4. Wolverine really is a POS movie. Horrifying.

5. Kevin Costner can act. I tend to forget this in light of The Postman and Waterworld.

6. I am slowly moving towards being a video game nerd. The "upcoming games" feature in the Xbox magazine I bought for the flight has drool stains all over it.

7. The bed I slept in at the Kuala Lumpur Transit Hotel was the second hardest bed I have ever experienced, only eclipsed by the bed in Prague that felt like three slabs of concrete joined together cross-wise by metal rods that protruded a good inch from the bed.

8. H1N1 is a big deal in Malaysia. Seemed like every other person at the airport was wearing a face mask of some sort. No Outbreak suits visible, though I expect hordes of men dressed in them waiting in sterile rooms to bodytackles feverish travellers.

9. Shutter Island and Inception may well rekindle my faith in Leonardo de Caprio.

10. Jetlag is a gloriuos thing. Jetlag going east is even more glorious. I expect it to be even more glorious in a few hours.

The torch of doubt and chaos, this is what the sages steer by

2009-09-11T11:31:00.001+02:00

The day started well enough. Woke up before the alarm, to warmth and hugs. Maybe the nervousness before an 11 hour flight stirred something in me, butterflies in the stomach and all that, and woke me, or maybe it was just the fact that I usually get up at 0545 and now I woke up at 0635. Some internal clock going off. "Wakey wakey! Rise and shine! I've got a nice cuttlefish for you when you wake up!"

I wasn't pushing up the daisies though, nor bereft of life. Not even tired, really. Excited. On the move. Being the control freak that I am, lists of what to pack and what to get done were completed weeks ago. Started laying stuff out in neat piles on the living room table during the weekend. Packed most things last night.

And then off to the airport. Mah Girl walked me to the train station, which is ten minutes from our apartment, and then I rode a train from there all the way to the airport. No changing at Centralen, no lugging of luggage from one end of the station to the other. Sweet.

Arrived at Arlanda with three hours to kill. Scratch that. Four hours. Why? My flight to Kuala Lumpur is delayed. Already. By an hour. Not a good start of the journey proper.

Then problems at check-in, something with the ticket that said I was going to KL and KL only. I spotted it when she tagged by back as "ARL to KLU", not "ARL to AKL via KLU". She looked a bit embarrased, and then spent ten minutes trying to convince whatever evil system she was working in that yes, I was supposed to go to Auckland. Airport voodoo was performed and the system acquiesced.

Now I'm at a café in the airport, having consumed a surprisingly moist piece of carrot cake (from a distance it looked like a brick, but it was still the most appetizing thing they had), tapping away. The wifi here is ridiculously expensive, so I'm writing everything I plan to post/send ahead of time.

A little more than two and a half hours to lift-off. The butterflies in my stomach have settled down. Or maybe they're just smothered under the carrot cake...

Start spreading the news, I'm leaving today

2009-09-11T08:55:00.001+02:00

So I'm off today. The plane leaves at 1310, and I land in Auckland, New Zeeland, 36 glorious hours later. Happy happy joy joy at the trip, not so much joy at all that time spent in a metal tube with wings and crap air recycling systems, or three weeks away from Mah Girl, but still.

I will be hanging out with The Beardless One, as in my brother, and his girlfriend for two weeks. See some sights, gawk at nature, drink some beer, go cave-tubing and relax. Sweet. And then shopping for six days in Kuala Lumpur. And gawking at skyscrapers. Sweet again.

I aim at posting regularly here during the trip, but we'll see. The point is to experience, not photograph your experience or write about it, as a friend once put it. On some levels I see his point. We're all too busy chronicling or planning how to chronicle our lives that we tend to forget to stop and just enjoy.

I hope I can find some balance in that regard over the next three weeks. Because we all know I'm too much of an attention whore not to write while I'm down there.

Look out, Paddy Power, someone's just parked a tank on your lawn

2009-09-08T22:43:00.001+02:00

I haven't written anything here in a while. I've been busy with other things, like planning for my trip, working and hugging Mah Girl. Hopefully I'll find more time and inspiration during my vacation, so I can chronicle it here.

Today I realized just how badly I need a vacation. Over the past two months or so I've ranted three times at various things at work, things that I could have handled in a much calmer fashion. They've ranged from small-scale to monumental in terms of the changes it will bring should my gripes be listened to. Time will tell. I believe this is the very definition of my job description: “constructive criticism”. Though I'm not sure its been all that constructive lately...

There's been a lot of construction (con-structive, con-struction. I know, not even a pun, really) going on outside our apartment though. They're building some sort of youth center across the road. As if the daycare below our window wasn't bad enough. Soon we'll have pimple-faced punks tearing it up on their mopeds outside. Hell, we have Homer in the apartment across the hall (as in Sport Fanatic) so why not Pimple Faced Kid a.k.a. Squeaky Voiced Teen across the road? Gods, I'm old.

Also, a couple of months ago they installed what looks like a traffic gate from Blade Runner. It's a big metal rod smack dab in the middle of the road into the yard outside our apartment, topped with red lights. The whole thing slides down into the ground when we use our electronic key on a post on the side of the road. You can stand on it and rise into the air as it slides back up. I'm just waiting for someone to tinker with it and have it go catapult.

Recently they realized it wasn't enough, and started sinking giant rocks into the ground around the road and across the expanses of grass on either side. I guess they're aiming at stopping cars from driving around the traffic gate, but it looks more like they're trying to emulate the Maginot Line. I mean, Flemingsberg is not the best neighborhood, but I seriously doubt Ze Germans are arriving in force anytime soon.

And the funny thing is, it looks like they put the massive rocks on the sides of the gate too close to it. I doubt a truck or a fire engine will get through there. I'm going to measure it at some point, just because that's the kind of annoying guy I am.

Two working days left, and then I need to worry less about work and construction and more about 23 hours in the air over two flights and bringing 240 prescribed pills past two sets of customs officers. Wish me luck.

If a man goes into business with only the idea of making money, the chances are he won’t

2009-09-02T23:24:00.001+02:00

That evil and despicable mega-corp Disney has gone and done it again. The day before yesterday it was announced that Disney is buying Marvel. Let me repeat that. Disney, as in Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, is buying Marvel.

Now, this may not mean a whole lot to most of you. In fact, most of you probably don't care. To me, though, and to othr comic book nerds around my age this is a pretty big deal.

Marvel comics were an integral part of my teens. X-Men, Spider-Man, The Hulk and, above all, Daredevil, were like friends to me. The Marvel universe is the first that I found escape in, and regardless of the ups and downs Marvel and it's titles have gone through over the years, I will always look back at all that stuff I read in the early to mid 90s with a smile on my face.

My favorites are X-Men circa 1991-1995, Frank Miller's Daredevil and some Punisher stuff. Oh, and Marshal Law, but that's not really Marvel Marvel.

So now Disney is swooping in, assuming control of a Marvel Comics once again on the top of their game. This is a company that filed for bankruptcy in 1996, after being the most visible comic book company for a long time. The recovery they've gone through since then is nothing short of remarkable. And much of this is due to the success of the movies based on Marvel characters. This began in 1998 with Blade, and continues to this day with blockbuster hits like Iron Man.

Let's take a moment to ponder all them Marvel films. Being a fan of many of the original comics, I have watched these movies with a mix of fascination and utter dread. There have been disasters and there have been surprising highlights.

The surprise was Iron Man. I was never a die-hard fan of the character itself, but as soon as that first trailer surfaced and I saw Robert Downey Jr's crooked smile, I knew it would be a wild ride. And it was, and still is. I await Iron Man 2 with a not so crooked smile.

The disaster? Daredevil. A train wreck, of epic proportions. I know the word may seem inappropriate here, but it was a downright rape of one of my favorite characters. Horrendous.

Daredevil, which is sort of Marvel's equivalent to Batman, is one of the reasons why I view the acquisition of Marvel by Disney with a great deal of horror. Sure, they had the good sense not to mess with Pixar's recipe for success after they bought them, but that's not really the same thing, to me. Marvel has a darker side that I imagine may be hard to swallow for some Disney execs. This dark side is rarely more evident than in Daredevil. And there has been talk of a reboot of the Daredevil franchise, a la Batman Begins. Darker, edgier, without Ben Affleck and Colin Farrell. Oh the possibilities.

Now though, Scrooge McDuck has opened his vault of infinite dollar bills and let them rain over Marvel's shareholders. An astonishing 4 billion dollars is the price for my childhood nostalgia. Time will tell if anything good comes out of it. I expect disappointment. My gut feeling is that Disney is after the possibilities to sell toys, video games and all that jazz, and will focus on churning out blockbuster movies based on Marvel characters. Not in itself a bad thing, but like I said, I doubt they will embrace the darker side of Marvel.

If there are any comic book fans reading this (and yes, the question is to you too, Steelwheels, oh mighty Marvel geek), please share your Marvel memories and tell me your fave Marvel movie. If anyone says Daredevil, I will disown you.

Silence adds sparkle to many a speech

2009-09-01T22:13:00.002+02:00

Triangles showed me a video a ways back. I thought about it today when I saw a guy signing on the train, using video telephony on his mobile to talk to a friend. Technology is cool. So I asked Triangles to send the video again.

And here it is.

A void of indifference

2009-08-30T23:00:00.002+02:00

Possible spoiler below, if you haven't seen Heroes.

We watch a lot of TV, Mah Girl and I. Preferably in the DVD box form, and we have a bunch of them on our shelves. Today we finished Generation Kill, which we started yesterday. A miniseries of seven episodes about a unit of recon Marines during the second US invasion of Iraq, in 2003.

I like the miniseries format. I like knowing that the writer and producer and director have a set ending in mind while they're working, and that they know the path to that end from day one. I tire quickly of TV shows that go nowhere and seem to have no goal in sight (can you spell Lost?), though shows that just fade before a proper end comes along pisses me off even more. Carnivale is one example of that (though I haven't watched it yet, its on our shelf), Millennium another.

If I'd had my way, Heroes would have been a miniseries too, at least at this point when we've seen season one and two. If the show had ended at Kirby Plaza, with the explosion, I would have been a very happy camper. Few shows, especially American shows, have the guts to end in that way.

Back to Generation Kill. Excellent script, brilliant characters and good actors, including Alexander Skarsgård in top form. The show doesn't make a political statement about the US presence in Iraq, but instead highlights the futility of the actions of American soldiers as well as show the horrors of war. The indifference of most of the recon Marines in the face of death and suffering is horrendous to watch.

I myself actually see the point of war. I'm not saying I condone the invasion of Iraq, but there are times when armed conflict is unavoidable and indeed necessary. History are full of such examples. We might have all been speaking German today if someone hadn't decided to meet violence with violence.

Yes, there are crimes committed and innocents killed in war. That is horrible, and something none of us should accept. However, this should not make us blind to the fact that war is necessary. There are greater wrongs in this world that can only be corrected through the use of force. That is sad, but an undeniable fact.

The sway of alcohol strikes back

2009-08-24T22:38:00.005+02:00

Continued from Saturday, or rather, brought back on track to “good party nights” from “good nights, period”.

My 25th birthday (the music one, not the one where my “friends” got me horribly drunk). This was when I still lived in Karlskoga. I went to an acquaintance of mine who had a restaurant/night club, and asked if we could rent that place. He said if I could get fifty people there, and paid for the bands myself (cause you gotta have bands on your 25th) we could have the place. With fifty guests he would make enough money at the bar to make it a worthwhile night for him.

So we sold 98 tickets, including the 25 or so friends who sat down at six o'clock in the restaurant before the party and ate. Then we went upstairs to the club, and hit the beer and drinks. The first band went on, my friend Posti's stoner band Dog Will Hunt. Then a friend of mine came up to me and said “There's a line outside...” And there was. All in all, over 200 people showed up that night. People I'd never met came up to me, all smiles and hugs, and wished me a happy birthday. It was like some weird dream, where everything just seems warm and fuzzy and pleasant.

Two more bands played that night. Local act Ed Myer, who began something of a tradition at my birthdays by giving me a present in the form of a cover, that time Deftones' “Korea”. Then my friend B-Jet's band H.A.L. played, fronted by another friend, Det Finns Bara En Av Oss, who was part of that band very briefly. Tito Beltran (pre-rape conviction) came up and stood watching in the doorway to the club, surrounded by various hangers-on, gaping as Det Finns belted out scream after scream. It was surreal.

After drinking literally every bottle of beer the place had, we all left at two, a bunch of us retiring to Posti's home for an afterparty of epic proportions. We left at 0700, riding the crest of a wave created by music, a perfect blood alcohol level and excellent, excellent friends.

Easily the best birthday party I've ever had, though my 30th comes extremely close.

I had three 30th birthday parties, because why settle for one? The first was with colleagues at work. Food and then a bar where we were the only patrons, and got the full attention of bar staff more than happy to help celebrate me. A good start. Then I had a party back in Karlskoga, this after having moved to Stockholm, with all my closest friends from back home. We started at the local Stadshotell (which is a very Swedish small town thing, where the often only hotel in town has a night club), with food and a set from friends Lingua, where they first played some of their own songs and then a set of covers. That was their gift to me, a cover set that I got to choose all on my own.

We fled the hotel quickly after that, cause the owner is an asshole and we didn't want to be tormented by what they normally play there. We went to Looks Like Jöback's place, which was right behind the hotel. Problem was, his supply of alcohol was very limited. So Mistlur and I got our asses into a taxi and went to the all-night gas station and bought a couple of crates of beer, and Makes Kick-ass Chili walked home to see what supplies he could find there.

On our way back we passed Makes Kick-ass Chili on his way back, with a big bag slung over one shoulder. Turns out he emptied his liquor cabinet. Again, this was a night of good friends, laughter and music.

The third 30th party was in Stockholm, at Tanto-gården. An acquaintance had a club there, and we made a deal where I could have my party on her club night if I could book a band, Fingerspitzengefühl (best band name ever), she had been trying to book for a while. They're friends of friends, so I did, and three bands played that night too. The band then known as Smut, now known as A Swarm of the Sun started, then Lingua did a set of their own songs, and then Fingerspitzen. Then Lingua finished with yet another cover set, with lots of guests. The highlight was Deftones' “Passenger”, with a guest vocalist doing Chino's parts and Lingua's vocalist handling the Maynard parts. Not as mind-blowing as the real thing, but close.

As an added bonus. For my 30th, Mah Girl made a cake with the bearded smiley that I sign with on top in chocolate, and got me this:

Somebody stuck his blades in all his
major organs in alphabetical order
T-Bird, "The Crow"

There have been other great birthday moments too, such as when Det Finns Bara En Av Oss's then band Headplate opened for Machine Head in Stockholm and got the 800 people or so there to chant “Hurra hurra hurra!” for me since the gig was on my 26th birthday. Too bad I was just pulling into the parking lot since we had gotten ourselves thoroughly lost on the way there...

So much for birthday parties. Another time, other parties.

The sway of alcohol over mankind is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature

2009-08-22T16:06:00.002+02:00

I'm not really a party guy, in the sense that I go out partying a lot. I like home. I like my couch. I like hanging out with Mah Girl. Without any alcohol involved. When I do want to party I prefer someone's home to going out, unless there are very specific circumstances. I'm picky. An entire evening out can be ruined by the wrong music. Yes, that's how shallow I am.

What really matters is what you like, not what you ARE like. Books, records, films, these things matter. Call me shallow, it’s the fucking truth.
John Cusack, “High Fidelity”

I don't go dancing. I don't like music that is typically danced to. Techno, trance, house, ebm, etc. I do like drum n bass, on occasion, but again. Picky. And not for dancing. For headphones, on rainy days.

Nemo enim fere saltat sobrius, nisi forte insanit

So when I do go out, it's either to a place that plays specific music, usually live, or with a group of friends. And while there are some places I really like to hang out (Lilla Hotellbaren, ftw!), the best parties tend to be at someone's apartment, house, hovel, hole in the ground and other words that begin with h.

The best revels I've been to start out sort of mellow and then build towards a crescendo, fueled by excellent people, the right amount of alcohol, good music and something intangible, a quality that can't really be defined, which permeates the party from the beginning or is simply created at some critical mass of partyness.

Over the years, there are a few parties, a few nights of excellence, that really stand out.

April 3rd, 1999. Started out at Quick Like A Snake's place, together with Erik XIV and Looks Like Jöback, with drinks and music. Quick's apartment was one of the focal points of my life from maybe 19 until 25 or so. A place of friends, laughter, music and endless games.

After a few drinks, Erik (whose name isn't really Erik, but he looks like Erik XIV according to some people) decided he and I should go out, for a reason that wasn't apparent then but became so later. We walked up to the horror that is Wickan. If you live in my old hometown, you know this horror. If you don't, count yourself lucky.

We went in, walked around a bit, he played some blackjack and lost, then moved on. I was confused at this point. Then we walked to Gabbe's, one of the sunkigaste sunkhak in Karlskoga at any given time. There we hooked up with his then girlfriend, Idaho, and her redhead friend.

The friend wore a Slayer tee and a TOOL long-sleeve, had a killer smile and only frowned a little at the fact that I was drinking an alcopop. We ended up kissing that night, and I skip-jumped home with Erik and Idaho when she had to take the bus. Almost ten and a half years later, I'm watching her type away at her own laptop across the room now. She still has a killer smile and wears TOOL tees on occasion.

And with this I realize that anything I write about other nights of significance would pretty much pale and fade to nothing. More on that some other time. I have to go hug Mah Girl now.

Birthdays are good for you. Statistics show that the people who have the most live the longest

2009-08-21T09:10:00.003+02:00

Today is my brother's 32nd birthday. He's on the other side of the world since October, and won't be back until the end of this year, though I will get to see him in September on my trip. Happy happy joy joy.

So congrats, bro. One year closer to a mid-life crisis.

Like peas in a pod. Or is that carrots?
I know, I know, hard to tell who's who.

Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad

2009-08-20T22:12:00.001+02:00

I got an email from an acquaintance today, saying that this was the best post I had written. I remember a few posts over the course of this blog vividly, but this, strangely enough was not one of them. So I read it, smiled at the beginning and then almost started crying when I read through it.

I'm still upset about the fact that my grandfather is not getting the dignified passing I always envisioned for him, and this is unlikely to change anytime soon.

Of course, Mah Girl was able to turn me around with a few simple words. “Remember good things about him, and not this. And rejoice in the fact that he will always be remembered, through your words.”

So I did. And I do. And I will. And I will remember him through the mechanical calendar, that my father set aside for me as he and other members of our extended family cleaned out The Old Man's apartment. In Swedish The Old Man is Den Gamle, abbreviated DG. He has gone by this name since before I was born. He will continue to go by this name after he is gone, and we'll all remember him with smiles on our faces.

And by all, I do mean all. One of my cousins has calculated that there are over 40 people descended from DG. Five generations. My grandfather's daughter, my father's sister, has a daughter who has a daughter who has a daughter. We are legion, for we are many.

The hardest job kids face today is learning good manners without seeing any

2009-08-19T21:51:00.002+02:00

Oh. I forgot. I talked about good manners, and forgot all about the bad. That's very much out of character for me. So here goes.

On Saturday I spent time with very good and very nerdy friends. Having finished the game we were playing, we went to the local pizza/pasta place to grab some food. As we sat there, outside, Triangles, Ribbed For Her Pleasure and I, waiting for our food, Triangles said: “That kid is peeing in the street”.

And he was. Peeing. In the street. While his father stood beside him, watching. For all I know urging him on. The thing is, this is a residential street with an assortment of stores and restaurants, and slopes down towards a bigger road. Sloping down = pee running down.

We ignored this. Tore into our food. Ten minutes passed. Then Triangles says: “That kid is peeing in the street, too”.

I turned around. Again, he was. Peeing. In the street. Another kid. Father by his side. What. The. Hell. Seems like the street in question was a urinal. Very nice.

Is there something I'm missing here? Is it something that parents do, allow their kids to pee in the street? Please tell me. If yes, then I have yet another reason to never have children. That would be reason 138, I think. If no, then I might need to go all The Locker on that street and figure out if it's something that happens there a lot, and investigate further. Then again, we're talking about children peeing in the street, so maybe I should just let it go...

A salesman minus enthusiasm is just a clerk

2009-08-18T18:41:00.000+02:00

So like I said yesterday, I spent Friday in one of our two newly opened stores. Unlike our competitors here in Sweden we've never had our own stores, and have reiterated our standpoint on having stores many times over the years. Not for us. A waste of money. Etc. But finally we did a 180 and got ourselves two stores, one in our own neighborhood, in the shopping mall within a stone's throw of our office, and the other in a big shopping mall in the southern part of Stockholm.

See, we're the cheap telecom operator. Oops, sorry, not cheap. Inexpensive. Big difference. Whatever. We're always aiming to have the lowest prices of the four operators in Sweden, and throughout the years we haven't really been associated with supplying quality services. So it's a stretch for us to launch concept stores, but that's what we've done.

And the orders from Up On High was that everyone in mobile product management should work two days in a store, to gain understanding of the business and our customers. We have a similar policy regarding customer service, in that all employees of the company should visit customer service once each year to listen to and preferably take calls from our subscribers.

I was really nervous about going to the store. I don't consider myself a sales person in any way, shape or form, and felt that perhaps potential customers might be a bit apprehensive about the whole “big bearded guy in huge pants” thing. So I dressed in jeans, all be it big ones and in a very dark blue, and combed the beard. Hell, I comb it at least twice every day, but it sounded like something you should do before going to work in a retail store.

Like the employees at the store I got to wear a tee sporting the company logo across the back and the symbol for one of our subscriptions across the chest. I almost felt like I belonged.

I acted customer service, I acted expert on the sales tool (which I am in fact somewhat of an expert on), I got to talk about subscriptions and phones and even had to answer some questions about SAR values (that's Specific Absorption Rate, go Google it). I even facilitated four or five sells that I handed over to the store employees. Commission for them, personal satisfaction for me. Oh well.

In all, a weird but rewarding experience. I'm going back on Sunday for four or five hours. The weekends are more chaotic, so I may not be so positive after that. We'll see.

Life is not so short but that there is always time enough for courtesy

2009-08-17T20:39:00.001+02:00

I believe my parents did a good job raising me, if we talk about manners. Not sure they agree when it comes to cultural preferences...

So I consider myself a fairly well-mannered guy, in some respects. I know how to be out among people without screaming and cursing or licking people's backpacks. I hold the door at the train station if you're right behind me. I offer my seat on the bus or train to the elderly.

Sure, I've been known to scare a child or two to tears, but that was never intentional, and I tend to run people over in conversations from time to time, but that's not intentional either. I know I can come off as arrogant until you get to know me, but then you find out that I'm nice and lovable and all that jazz. And well-mannered, in most situations.

When someone returns the favor, I smile inwardly. Like when someone holds a door for me or says thank you when I do the same. However, sometime acts of courtesy take me completely by surprise, and I find myself smiling openly. Often it's when something happens that feels completely inappropriate for the situation, in the best possible way.

On Friday I sat waiting for a bus to go work in our newly opened store (that day in the store is a whole other post just waiting to be written), reading, headphones on. It was around nine in the morning. A girl sat down a meter or so away on the bench. 16-ish, wearing those awful gray sweatpants that have no business being worn outside, under any circumstances unless you're going home from the gym and barely then. Suddenly she tapped me on the shoulder.

I removed my headphones, and she said: “I just wanted to tell you that the label is still on your jacket”. Lo and behold, it was. I thanked her, and she continued. “And do you mind if I smoke?” I just stared at her, completely flabbergasted that she would even ask. My experience is that a lot of people that smoke will just light up without even bothering to check if someone is downwind of them. And teenage girls aren't exactly in that group that is likely to ask.

Finally I shook my head and said “No problem”. She nodded, sat back and lit up. I pulled my headphones back on and went back to my book. Pattern Recognition. By William Gibson. Again. Stared at the page for a while, not reading, just trying to comprehend what had just happened. Then smiled. Read.

Every city has secrets. But none as terrible as this

2009-08-12T22:51:00.003+02:00

With emphasis on terrible.

When I was fifteen-ish I read a lot of Stephen King and Dean Koontz. A very small number of those books made enough of an impression that I can still remember them, and most of them were King's. Of Koontz's stuff it's only Twilight Eyes, which was the first of his that I read, and The Bad Place that I really remember.

Recently I discovered that Mr. Koontz had come up with his own twist on the Frankenstein mythos, mad scientists and monsters and all, and I decided to order the first part of the trilogy, Prodigal Son.

The reason I stopped reading Koontz was that I wanted more. Not more plot or more suspense or more monsters, no, I wanted better writing. The reason that Koontz has sold millions and millions of copies of his novels is that he writes page-turners, and not because you have to know what happens on the next page, but because you sit down and read and all of a sudden you've read 130 pages and it feels like you've just been flipping through them without reading them. The text requires only the slightest processing involving higher brain functions, and it moves through the reader like sterile water. Tasteless, transparent, forgettable.

And I also wanted less. Less clichés. Less formulaic plots and characters. After a couple of books it was very easy to pick out who would die when and who would hook up with who.

So my expectations concerning Prodigal Son were very low. I went into this novel suspecting I would be disappointed. And I was, and am.

I'm sorry to say that Prodigal Son is a POS. Piece of shit. While the idea of a modern twist on the Frankenstein myth appeals to me, it's poorly executed both in terms of story and writing, and I find myself annoyed whenever I read it. And cliché upon cliché upon cliché. Tiresome.

I will finish it, because I rarely put down a book. The exceptions being Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close that I had to put down because I started crying, and Gravity's Rainbow because I just couldn't handle it. I've read Extremely since then, and enjoyed it immensely, and while I intend to read Rainbow some time, I need to make my way through some earlier Pynchon before I tackle it again.

After Prodigal Son, I will probably reread The Road or Pattern Recognition to purge my system of this literary travesty. Again, with emphasis on terrible.

ADDED:
I just took a "Which crazy writer are you" quiz, and the result is here!

What are the odds?

Critics? How do they happen?

2009-08-11T17:11:00.006+02:00

It was a fluke that got me into writing about music. Back in 1995, a friend and I walked into the local paper in Karlskoga and said “we want to review movies”. They looked at us, these journalists that had slaved away at a minor paper for twenty years, and said “Eh...you can't. The culture section does that”.

We did however get an offer to write for the youth section. It is a true sign of a great newspaper that they let just anyone walk in and start writing.

So we wrote reviews of ice cream and board games and books and the occasional text on pretty much whatever. Then, in what alcoholics refer to as “a moment of clarity”, I emailed a record company and asked for CDs for reviews. And they sent them! So I started reviewing CDs. I still have some of those first reviews, in my clippings folder, and they're horrible. Unspeakably horrible.

Then I moved to Sundsvall to go to college. I went to a Peace, Love and Pitbulls gig with some friends, and being music geeks, we stood there and had opinions on pretty much everything. A woman behind me asked if I knew the titles of the last few songs and I told her, in that condescending “my taste in music is better than you” way that I had back then (and still have, to some degree). That condescension gave me a job reviewing CDs for Sundsvall Tidning, which is a considerably bigger newspaper than Karlskoga's local rag.

After that I wrote for a couple of fanzines (this was back in the day when fanzines were still paper, made using a Xerox machine) and yet another paper in a city I went to college in. Then along came Supersatan, in maybe 1998 or 1999.

Yet another treasure from the depths of my closet

And here's a question for Hans. How did I come to write for Supersatan? I can't remember.

Supersatan was a metal site, where I wrote reviews and did interviews and such. I think I interviewed earthtone9 there, as well as P3 Rocks Håkan Persson. Writing there was a lot of fun, and we got a lot of attention and readers. Then one of Sweden's premier rock journalists wrote a column in Close-Up Magazine praising our site as Sweden's best metal site in Swedish, and specifically mentioned me as a writer with pretty much the same taste in music as he has.

About a month later I got an email from the editor of Close-Up asking if I wanted to write there. Which is an offer you don't refuse if you write about metal in Sweden. Mostly I did reviews of CDs, but I also wrote a couple of columns and did some interviews. I got to fly to London to see the first European gig Linkin Park ever did, where they played for a bunch of journalists, some record company bigwigs and a handful of fans. Business class there and back and one night in a fancy London hotel on the record company's dime, and all they got was half a page where the band answered The Basic Questions. Hardly a fair trade, but I didn't complain.

In 2002 I stopped writing for Close-Up because I had sort of a nervous breakdown (more on that some other time), and once I was back on my feet I started writing for Slavestate, which back then was an actual magazine. All of a sudden I could pretty much pick and choose which bands I wanted to do interviews with, and I got a lot more printed than in Close-Up. I've done interviews with Slipknot, Machine Head, Isis, Ministry, Cult of Luna, Type O Negative, Prong, Devin Townsend, 36 Crazyfists, Poison the Well, Burst, Pelican, etc (yes, namedropping galore, but that's what you should expect from me).

I'm still writing for Slavestate, though not as often as I did back in the day and not as often as I would like. Time is something that has been in shorter and shorter supply over the last couple of years. But I'm happy I'm still writing, because expressing my opinions about music is one of my favorite pastimes.

We used to build civilizations. Now we build shopping malls

2009-08-10T18:51:00.001+02:00

In September I will be flying to New Zeeland to visit my brother, who's spending twelve months there, thanks to an exchange program his company has. The most exotic traveling I've done through my job was when I went to Vilnius to educate a bunch of tech geeks who could barely speak English about the inner workings of SMSCs and MMSCs. Oh, unless you count the trip to Istanbul. But that was all pleasure, no business.

So two weeks in New Zeeland. I'm really looking forward to it. Not only because I haven't seen my brother since October of last year, but also since NZ is supposedly a spectacular country, and we'll be doing some spectacular things, like this:

It's called cave tubing, or black water rafting. This is where you get into the water, hold on to an inflated tube and then float through caves to look at rock formations and glowworms. Yes, pictures of me in a wetsuit may be taken. Prepare to gouge your eyes out.

On the way home I will stop in Kuala Lumpur for six days. My plan is to look at some building and go on a massive shopping spree. That city seems to be adapted to my shopping needs. Massive malls, with hundreds and hundreds of stores. One dedicated entirely to electronics and home entertainment. One with seven streetwear stores within spitting distance of each other.

The main objective is a laptop, to reply my current LG which is getting old and tired. I will also look for some sort of portable video device, something with a meatier screen than my iPod classic, to view TV shows on, on the train. Clothes will also be a focus. I will bring my favorite shirt with me and have a tailor make copies, as well as Mah Girl's favorite pants, and will try to find some other stuff as well.

I may also buy some toys. As in “actual toys”. To crowd our bookshelves further. You must please your inner child as often as you can. Otherwise he withers and dies. And you don't want to be a child killer, now do you?

If you saw a heat wave, would you wave back?

2009-08-09T20:41:00.001+02:00

The heat really only got to me a couple of days here and there in June and July. During one week we had to run the AC in the living room a few times, so we didn't melt. Here in the Land Of No Air Conditioning I had to buy a portable one, that we move from room to room whenever the heat gets to us.

Which it does now. The devil we call the sun is casting it's baleful gaze down upon us unsuspecting mortals yet again, and while others may smile at the thought of such a thing and then frolic about in parks and on beaches and anywhere really, I just want to close the blind, crank up the AC to ten and watch TV/play games/read/write/hug the girl.

Nigel Tufnel: The numbers all go to eleven. Look, right across the board, eleven, eleven, eleven and...
Marty DiBergi: Oh, I see. And most amps go up to ten?
Nigel Tufnel: Exactly.
Marty DiBergi: Does that mean it's louder? Is it any louder?
Nigel Tufnel: Well, it's one louder, isn't it? It's not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You're on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you're on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where?
Marty DiBergi: I don't know.
Nigel Tufnel: Nowhere. Exactly. What we do is, if we need that extra push over the cliff, you know what we do?
Marty DiBergi: Put it up to eleven.
Nigel Tufnel: Eleven. Exactly. One louder.
Marty DiBergi: Why don't you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?
Nigel Tufnel: [pause] These go to eleven.

Oh yeah. And listen to music. At eleven.

Now I'm going to go out on the balcony, which you can't even open the door to between two and eight without succumbing to spontaneous combustion, and give the sun the finger. And maybe find me a spider I can kill.

Cuz I'm praying for rain and I'm praying for tidal waves
I wanna see the ground give way
I wanna watch it all go down
Mom please flush it all away
I wanna watch it go right in and down
I wanna watch it go right in
Watch you flush it all away
Time to bring it down again
Don't just call me pessimist
Try and read between the lines
I can't imagine why you wouldn't Welcome any change, my friend
I wanna see it all come down
Suck it down
Flush it down

I love the smell of urine in the morning

2009-08-06T23:00:00.002+02:00

The apartment hasn't been invaded by the smoke from next door's in a while, knock on wood. Sometimes we get smoke from an apartment below us, when we have the balcony windows open, but there's nothing to do about that.

However, Smoking Woman remains, an unseen presence in the apartment next to ours. Not unsmelled, though. The landing outside our apartment reeks from cat urine. Horribly. I can only imagine how it must smell in there, considering the stench outside.

And the smell isn't the big issue. Why the hell keep cats if you can't take care of them properly? And should I call animal control or something? She's an old woman, but that's no excuse, really. There may be animals suffering in there, and while I do prefer my animals on the barbecue, that ain't a good thing.

So what to do, what to do? Any suggestions?

The first draft of anything is always shit

2009-08-04T20:36:00.000+02:00

So I've decided on two texts to work on (thanks Mr Urban Army) for the workshop in San Diego I'm aiming for in the summer of 2010. I know I probably won't get in, since over 200 people apply and there's only room for 18 or 20 students, but I have to try.

The texts are “Security” and “And then there was the word”. The opening paragraphs of both texts are posted below. Please tell me what you think. And if anyone's interested in reading and giving feedback on the whole thing, let me know and I can send it once it's done.

SECURITY

The alarm by her door woke Reuben up. The motion sensors hidden in the apple trees along the garden path, roosting like white plastic birds. He would have to find another way to position them in two months, when the leaves started falling.
Yawning so hard his jaw creaked, he sat up on his folding cot and rubbed his face. Sometimes, staring at the monitors, he wondered if he ever really slept anymore, or if he existed in some no man’s land, where sleep was no longer a physical thing, but a state of mind.
He walked over to his desk. The monitors, waiting, the images there better known to him than even his own apartment. He sat down in his Steelcase Leap, and focused on the top left monitor. A carefully smoothed down piece of packing tape across the bottom. “Front door” stenciled in precise black letters.
She stood there, digging around in her black imitation alligator purse, looking for keys. Reuben carefully noted the date and time in his log, under Arrivals, without taking his eyes from the monitor. She was later than usual, but not enough to be worth further comment. With time, he had learned what mattered and what didn’t.
After a few moments she found her keys and opened the front door. As she walked into the hallway and shut the door behind her, Reuben’s gaze slid over to the next monitor. “Hallway”. High ceiling, black and white photographs of kite surfers at Mui Ne on the walls. A coat rack in one corner, the brainchild of a team of black-clad Swedish designers. Sweeping lines of birch wood, reminiscent of birds’ wings.
Reuben watched as she took her coat off and walked into the open area that was both living room and kitchen. The hallway camera covered some of that area as well. Kitchen appliances gleamed there, unused, untouched. In three weeks, he had never seen her cook. Nine restaurants on speed dial.
Reaching under the desk, Reuben pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and took a long pull. She only drank Perrier, and wine, occasionally. Now she walked over towards her fridge, a squat cream Smeg, depositing her purse on the kitchen table. His eyes moving to the monitor one row down. “Kitchen”.

AND THEN THERE WAS THE WORD

Ishmael finds himself on his knees, face down on a hard, cold surface. Gravel bites into his shins and cheeks. He is naked. A sense of otherness envelops him. The hairs on his arms stand on end, and there's a roaring in his ears. He slowly pushes himself up from the ground, and lifts his face up to see.
Words hang in the air in front of his face, on all sides of him, above him. A cage of words woven around him. A barrier that seems as impenetrable as stone. Stunned, he reaches out and lets his fingertips brush them. And howls in pain as their power tears into him, into his fingers, down his arm, into his body, into his soul. Falling back to the ground, his face strikes the ground hard.
Someone speaks on the other side of the barrier of words. A staccato chatter of sounds that are completely meaningless to him. He looks up again, slowly, cradling his aching arm. The words spoken tumble around him, like broken pieces of some arcane puzzle. Instinctively, he pulls pieces out of the air, assembles them and tastes the result, amazed that it's touch does not burn him as the others did. It tastes like a derivative of things he already knows, of things he has read about in ancient tomes. Of myth and of dust.

MCMXCIV part II - Spotify Strikes Back

2009-08-03T20:35:00.000+02:00

As Magnus pointed out, 1994 deserves to be celebrated with a playlist too.

So, for those of you with Spotify, here's a homage to 1994 containing most, if not all, of the releases mentioned in the previous post.

MCMXCIV

2009-08-02T16:09:00.001+02:00

There are several years that I can wax nostalgic about when it comes to music (is that correct, Americans? “wax nostalgic”? My good friend the Internet seems to think so). 1992, when I discovered Good Music. 1995, when the Best Album Ever was released. But when it comes to Best Music Year Ever, there's only one contender, really.

1994. Seriously. What the hell happened that year? There are so many outstanding records that came that year. Some I still listen to. Some I listened to a lot back then. Some I discovered on the way from then to now, and then left on the side of the road, others are still on my CD shelf. Whatever the case, it was a spectacular year in music.

How spectacular, you ask? Here's a list of good stuff that came out that year, interspersed with some videos.

Alice In Chains - Jar of Flies
Tori Amos - Under the Pink
Beastie Boys - Ill Communication

Biohazard - State of the World Adress
Jeff Buckley - Grace
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Let Love In
Dinosaur Jr - Without a Sound
Drown - Hold on to the Hollow
Failure - Magnified
Front Line Assembly - Millennium
Helmet - Betty
House of Pain - Same As It Ever Was
Korn - S/t

Kyuss - Welcome to Sky Valley
Killing Joke - Pandemonium
Live - Throwing Copper
Machine Head - Burn My Eyes

Marilyn Manson - Portrait of an American Family
Mary Beats Jane - S/t
Massive Attack - Protection
Misery Loves Co – S/t
Nailbomb - Point Blank
Nine Inch Nails - The Downward Spiral

Pantera - Far Beyond Driven
Peace, Love and Pitbulls - Red Sonic Underwear

Pop Will Eat Itself - Dos Dedos Mis Amigos
Portishead - Dummy

The Prodigy - Music for the Jilted Generation
Prong - Cleaning
Soundgarden - Superunknown

Stone Temple Pilots - Purple
Therapy? - Troublegum

Then again, 1994 gave us “The Sign” by Ace of Base and Cradle of Filth released their debut album...

What do you think? Any other records released in 94 that should be on this list? Or some other year that tops this? And oh yeah. Thåström should always, always sound like that.

Vestis facit virum

2009-08-01T17:11:00.001+02:00

The last week or so we, as in Mah Girl and I, have been tearing through closets and cabinets and drawers, sorting clothes, inspecting clothes, trying out clothes and other activities involving clothes. The end result is a couple of big paper bags filled with stuff we'll give to charity, and that I did a thorough inventory of my clothes.

And my oh my do I have clothes. Here's a list of what's left:
- 60 plus tees. I lost count after 60. Mostly band tees, but quite a few geek tees as well. My favorite is this one for the Ludovico Technique.
- Seven shirts. Yes, I have seven shirts. Who knew? Most of them are short-sleeved though, so maybe they don't count.
- Nine hoodies. Again, mostly band stuff.
- Two zip hoodies. These are more like jackets, but not really. One Rocawear, one Eckö Unlimited. That's how hip hop I am.
- 19 pairs of pants. 19!! What the hell? I'm not buying another pair, ever. Except maybe those tobacco Carhartt cargo pants...
- Eight pairs of shorts. My favorite pair is in tatters. If I ever find them in a store again, I'm buying as many as they have.
- Two pairs of sweat pants, in various stages of disintegration.
- Track jacket. Looking for another one, but all those I've found have too much print or bling on them.
- Two jackets, one camo, one rain.
- Winter coat.
- Dr. Martens overcoat.
- Seven pairs of sneakers. You can never have too many sneakers.
- One pair of Dr. Martens low boots. I need another pair to act as dress shoes.
- Velour pajamas. Don't ask. I don't wear it, unless I'm going for a Love Boat look. Which never happens.

I don't really know how this happened. How I came to own so much clothes, because to me this is a lot. I have friends (work colleague Pink Shoes, among others) who own far more, but come on. This is me we're talking about. Mr wears a tee and cargo pants. Whatever. Cleaning out the closet was liberating. And I didn't find a single skeleton.

What's your favorite piece of clothing? Mine is the Dr. Martens overcoat. It's sort of military in style, and has been with me for fifteen years. Not only is it really comfortable, but it's also kind of unique, since it's from a test batch of coats they made and then never manufactured in numbers. I'm special!

We are such stuff as dreams are made on

2009-07-30T21:08:00.003+02:00

We saw Anton Corbijn's “Control” on Sunday. Spectacular movie, even though I'm not really a Joy Division fan. Black and white, long sweeping shots, and so mind-numbingly tragic I think it's a good idea to hide away any razorblades you have at home if you're going to see it.

On Sunday night I had nightmares. If you know anything about Joy Division, you know how that particular story ends. To me it wasn't surprising that I dreamed of Henrik. So sleep was frequently interrupted, and I was a very unhappy camper on Monday morning.

Then, between Tuesday and Wednesday, I had nightmares again. And bad. Really frickin' bad. I woke up screaming, at 0330. I haven't done that since I was fifteen or so, dreaming of falling endlessly into darkness. Unless you count that one time when a painting fell off the wall over the bed and landed on my leg.

This time the nightmares were all nooses, dead bodies and spiders. Big hairy fuckers. Spiders are the emissaries of Satan, only eclipsed by earwigs, who are actual children of Beelzebub. And the nooses, swinging from rafters, from staircases, made from rope, extension cords, wire. Bodies strewn all over, cold and dead. So I woke up screaming, and during what little sleep I had the nightmares continued to plague me.

Photo by Lynn Radeka. Used with permission

I really do believe that dreams are all about the subconscious processing things that your conscious mind can't or won't. I know I still have a lot of issues around his death, and that my number one fear is the death of those closest to me. The most powerful dreams I've ever had have been about death and loss, usually involving people I care deeply about.

So what to do? I'm not sure there's anything I can do. This time the nightmares were obviously triggered by the film, so maybe I should avoid pop culture references to suicide, especially by noose. Then I guess it's all down to time. That and maybe a couple of therapy sessions...

At the store, they have 100% recycled toilet paper. The worst job in the world must be recycling toilet paper.

2009-07-29T18:38:00.000+02:00

Walked into the bathroom at work today and found this:

What the hell? I sincerely hope it's one of the janitors doing this and not just some random employee who sees folding the toilet paper in the hotel way as his personal quest. Because that would just be weird.

Alcohol is the answer... What was the question?

2009-07-28T20:35:00.001+02:00

Back in 2003, I went to the Hultsfred festival with three friends. I had the accommodations, Ape number 1 and Ape number 2 had access to a car, and Jake the Cake just tagged along.

We stayed with the parents of a friend, which we had done a few times before and a few times since. Its one of the best festival accommodations ever. They have two rooms in the basement with six beds, we get access to a shower and a massive breakfast. I'm not much of a festival person, so it has suited me perfectly.

The first night we were on the festival grounds, The Cake and I decided to walk back to the house around 1 am. We tracked down the Apes, and told them we were leaving. No problem, they said, we'll stay and party some more. I explained how they should walk to get back. Out the main entrance to the road, then left, then right at the crossroads and walk to the gas station. The house is right behind the gas station. Not exactly rocket science.

In the morning Ape number 1 hugged me and almost cried at the sight of the breakfast table. Then they explained that they had walked around for about an hour without finding the house. Turns out they had walked out the wrong entrance, and while they had followed the directions after that to the tee, they were thoroughly lost. Eventually they hailed a taxi, and managed to persuade the driver to get them to the gas station for practically no money at all.

The next evening, the same thing repeated itself. We decided to go back, they decided to stay and get drunk. Or rather more drunk. In the morning Ape number 1 showed me text messages he had gotten from Ape number 2 during the night. They said, among other things “Var am I?”, which is a nice combo of Swedish and English, and various misspelled variations on the theme “I'm walking and don't know where I am” and “I don't recognize these houses”.

Ape number 2 filled in the details. The ones he remembered that is. Ape number 1 had left to go to the house. Ape number 2 once again walked out the wrong entrance, and then managed to get even more lost than the night before. Eventually he came to a straight road and decided this was the road that led to the crossroads, where he was supposed to turn towards the gas station. So he walked. And walked and walked and walked. Until he came to this sign:

See, he had walked six kilometers out of Hultsfred, along a road that cuts through a forest. Not a single house in sight. No lights, no nothing. Just darkness, trees and the road. And that sign.

We laughed so hard we cried. He does too. Nowadays. Not back then.

Turn murder into art

2009-07-27T22:10:00.006+02:00

Or is that art into murder?

I've written about vandalism vs art before. The point is not to distinguish between vandalism and art. The one does not exclude the other. However, vandalism is never OK, regardless of if its art or not. And sometimes its not even art. Its just vandalism, plain and simple.

This is the side of the building I live in. I figure, to get rid of this they should take Xhie's head, and then drag his face along the silver line on the wall. I think the blood will be the same color as the wall.

And don't call this graffiti. That gives this legitimacy that is not OK. Vandalism. Van-da-lism. Morons are what they are. Punks with no respect for the property of others. A good public whipping might be another way to go.

Confidence is what you have before you understand the problem

2009-07-25T12:47:00.001+02:00

I was on the train the other morning without my headphones, since I was going out to eat with some guys from work (Don't Spell My Name Wrong, You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Hungry and Handsome Karl) and generally don't like lugging player and headgear around when I'm going out after work.

When my headphones aren't on, I can't help listening to other peoples' conversations. I'm nosy, and a very curious cat. Hasn't killed me yet, knock on wood. Though it could have once.

This was maybe a year ago, on the train. I'm already sitting down, when this guy walks on, talking on his phone, sporting all the attributes of a guy who goes to soccer games not for the joy of the sport, but for crackin' skulls and takin' names. And he wasn't a big guy. It was the clothes he wore (yes, I'm prejudiced in this way and quite satisfied with that, thanks) and the attitude he projected.

So naturally I can't help myself. I turn off my iPod to listen in to his conversation. It contained, but was not exclusive to, these words. Blood. Fist. Cops. Fuck. Shit. Motherfucker. Kick. The shit out of. Laugh.

And so on. It was like a narrative to Romper Stomper. And of course I couldn't keep myself from looking up, from looking over at this very image of a mentally healthy, civilized member of society. And of course he noticed me looking. Something flickered to life in his eyes, like the light from the bulb that swings back and forth over your head as you're strapped to a chair, watching various body fluids of yours ooze across the floor. It was not a warm, glowing glow to bask in.

I'm a pretty big guy (this was actually written as “I'm a pretty guy” for quite a while until I corrected it. Freudian slip?). I wear black. I have a big goatee. People do get out of my way on the street. Even though I wouldn't hurt a fly. Well, a fly I would hurt. And spiders. And various other creepy crawlies. But I get side-tracked here. Again. Of course the way I look can backfire as well. I can imagine people looking at me, thinking “I should beat up that guy to look cool in front of my friends”, or just thinking “I'm a psycho. I should totally beat up that guy”. Though psychos, like the afore-mentioned well-adjusted fellow on the train, don't really think. See? That prejudice again. Yay!

I looked down. Buried my nose in my book. Turned the iPod back on. Hoped he would ignore me. He stared me for maybe ten seconds before going back to his phone conversation, probably telling his friend how he stared down this weakling on the train. Whatever. Better a live weakling than a dead fighter.

So again. I'm curious. And the other morning on the train I couldn't help but listen. A man was telling a woman how his girlfriend was working on a novel. Had been working on a novel for seven years. How it was an awesome novel, all ready and polished. The woman asked him why she hadn't sent it to a publisher. “Well, you know, she's a perfectionist”, came the answer. Then he continued. And oh how he continued. “She writes like Hemingway, but in a sort of thriller way.” Ehm...what? I'm not a reader of Hemingway, but know enough to know that he's considered a literary giant. To compare someone to him, on their first novel? Maybe a little too much confidence in your girlfriend there, mister.

Now, for all I know this may be the Next Great Swedish Writer. This may be the Novel To End All Novels. But I doubt it. And again. This is my prejudice talking. And again, I'm satisfied with that. Plus, you know, it would be a devastating blow to my writer's ego...

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me

2009-07-22T14:00:00.002+02:00

A list I stole from Cupcakes.

Three names you go by:
1. Martin
2. The Beard (Skägget, in Swedish)
3. Lurvilur (nothing I can translate)

Three screen names you have had:
1. Beardonaut
2. StalkingButler
3. monster

Three things you are wearing right now:
1. Grey Carhartt cargo pants
2. Black Dillinger Escape Plan tee
3. A frown

Three of your favorite bands or musical artists:
(I'll go for right now)
1. Machine Head
2. Kongh
3. Explosions in the Sky

Three careers you're considering:
(I'm pretty pleased with where I am, so I'll go with careers I have considered in the past)
1. Journalist
2. Architect
3. Writer (still considering this one)

Three places you want to go on vacation:
1. Japan
2. Damascus
3. Machu Pichu

Three ways I am stereotypically a boy:
1. I like beer. I don't like wine (men like wine, not boys)
2. I'm loud
3. I like video games where things die. Horribly. Preferably by gunfire, but fists and swords work fine too

Three ways I am stereotypically a chick:
1. I don't like bugs
2. I can say “Noo!” just like Princess Peach
3. I hide behind my hands or a pillow when scary movies get really scary

Three celeb crushes:
1. Christian Bale
2. Elektra
3. Winona Ryder (not anymore though, now she just bugs me)

Three things that scare you:
1. My loved ones dying
2. Saying “Candyman” three times in front of a mirror. Won't ever happen
3. Earwigs

Three things you want in a relationship (love is a given):
1. No children
2. Laughter
3. Time

Three physical things about the opposite sex that appeal to you:
1. Eyes
2. “Everybody knows I'm an ass man!”
3. Taste in music (not physical in the literal sense, I know, but more important than most physical attributes)

Three of your favorite hobbies:
1. Couch potatoing
2. Writing
3. Playing games

Eat a live toad the first thing in the morning and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day

2009-07-21T11:33:00.001+02:00

My day began nicely enough. Slept in for 30 minutes and then managed to catch the train just as it was pulling into the station. Vacation time is evident not only in the fact that I can pick and choose where to sit on the train, but also that conference rooms at the office are readily available.

Yesterday's top quote, from Handsome Karl:
Let's hold the meeting in USA, so we don't have to walk so far.

We had booked Luxembourg, which is at the far end of a corridor. USA is at the beginning of the same corridor. And by "far end" I mean thirty meters away. Hardly far. Needless to say we held the meeting in USA.

And yes. Our conference rooms are named after countries. Its better than at one of our competitors, where conference rooms are named after rock bands. I've had a meeting in Iron Maiden. Now there's a perfectly ordinary English sentence.

Back to my day. I got some serious reading time on the train. JPod, by Douglas Coupland, again. Geek lit. As the train passed out of the tunnel from Södra Station I looked out over the gray, choppy waters of Riddarfjärden, under an overcast sky, while This Will Destroy You played in my headphones. I felt at peace.

Then I got to sit onboard the non-moving train as it stood between stations just outside Karlberg. Not so much at peace anymore. Not so confident comments from the driver over the PA system. "There's a problem with the train. We're doing what we can to fix it". Sent angry texts to Mah Girl.

Knowing SL, the train was probably displaying the Blue Screen of Death, or a "This train has performed an illegal operation and will be shut down". Reboot required. All is then well in the Mofosoft world.

My inital thought was that if we had to evacuate the train because they couldn't get it moving again, I would just turn around and go home. There is no way a day that starts out like that can turn out to be anything other than a disaster.

After twenty minutes we were on the move again. The train shook and rattled in oh so reassuring ways. But we got there. Hooray!

The day so far is parsecs ahead of yesterday, in terms of clusterfuckedness (it's a word!), despite the train incident. Why? Not really because the problem is smaller. Today, I don't really care. I have reached some zen-like oneness with the world. Or maybe I just can't be bothered. Who knows?

Only after disaster can we be resurrected

2009-07-20T21:45:00.007+02:00

It's always nice to have someone around to make you laugh. And I mean really laugh.

My day began with the realization that I had forgotten my work laptop at home, tucked away in its rather stylish bag. I realized this as I walked across the parking lot outside the office, and seconds later I came to the conclusion that going back was not an option.

Work continued as a total clusterfuck. FUBAR. It crescendoed in the afternoon, with a meeting where I wanted nothing more than to storm out of there and go home. Angry emails will be written, and I'll be told to forget what has been and look ahead instead. I won't. I don't forget things like that. They take root and grow into a twisted tree covered in nasty thorns that keep lacerating my mind. OK, a bit over-dramatic and gothy there, but whatever. Close to the truth, anyway.

We're a very fast and adaptable company, yes we are, but we totally suck at learning from past mistakes. Suck-didely-uck. I am determined to at least let people know that they made the same decision twice and because of it we be fucked. Which will be seen as unacceptable. Which means I'll have to make some sense of a lot of things that don't make sense, launch it regardless of whether it makes sense or not, and proverbially tape it all up with proverbial duct tape to keep it from proverbially going all Titanic on me.

If Mah Girl hadn't been around (digitally, that is) earlier in the day to make me laugh, I may just have gone postal.

And this button-down, Oxford-cloth psycho might just snap, and then stalk from office to office with an Armalite AR-10 carbine gas-powered semi-automatic weapon, pumping round after round into colleagues and co-workers. This might be someone you've known for years. Someone very, very close to you.
- Narrator, Fight Club

Won't happen though. I'm Swedish. I'd much rather internalize all those feelings and bitch about them here. Plus, I don't wear Oxford cloth. Ever.

So I was at work, chipping away at my inbox and trying to figure out how to send my old laptop back to the company that handles our IT stuff, when my girl, otherwise occupied with Word Twist, suddenly realized that the TV was playing something that might be worthwhile looking at. “There's a cave with something egg-like in there, and a guy walking in to investigate”. Now, as you all should know, walking into a cave where there are egg-like things is never a good idea. Have we learned nothing else, this we should know.

Dan realized the litter box was overflowing. Again.

Then came what might be the funniest thing I've ever read on MSN.

“...and now he died”. I laughed so hard I cried. Co-workers looked at me with a “he's cracking, he's cracking” kind of panic in their eyes. I laughed so hard I lost my breath. Yes, yes, I was, and still am, really tired, but still. It was funny, huh?

Here's the story, if you care:
The story begins with a team of astronaut miners who complete a daring space expedition and embark on their journey home. But by the time the craft returns to Earth, their commander has gone insane. Three years later, a link between the mystery of the commander's madness and a series of bizarre disappearances in San Francisco brings archeologist Lloyd Walker and entomologist Marianne Winters into conflict with police and government officials who have been taken over by aliens masquerading as humans.

Ooooh. [ begin irony ] Intriguing. [ end irony ]

Later, I fled work, went and got myself vaccinated for my trip this fall, and then came home to “pizza-smörgåsar”, which I can't even begin to translate, and chocolatey snacks. Happy happy joy joy. Now I've reached some semblance of normalcy, and might just go and shoot some Nazis before I go sleep. A good ending to a crap day.

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter

2009-07-16T23:16:00.000+02:00

Today and tomorrow, customer service roadtrip. This is where a bunch of us (this time The Taliban, Don't Spell My Name Wrong, You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Hungry and I) pile into cars with our company logo proudly displayed on the side and drive 1100 kilometers to get to two of our customer service sites and hold reference group meetings.

A reference group meeting is where we sit down, we being product management, with representatives from our customer service, and have them tell us things we should fix. This can be anything, from text on our web page to the way one of our fundamental services works. It might sound extremely boring, but its actually very useful.

The meeting today was good, and then I had to run back and forth to solve a fairly major product problem which has been a thorn in my side for quite some time now. So close now. A simple process update tomorrow morning, and I should be on track. I'm not celebrating yet, though. I have run into far too many walls so far, so until I see a free and clear road ahead of me, I'm still paranoid.

That was one of our founder's mottoes. Always be paranoid.

And it's true. You can never be too paranoid. You never know enough. There are always questions to be asked, decisions and negative opinions to question. That's a big part of my job description. To be a difficult, annoying pain in the ass. Constructive questioning, my boss calls it. Potato potahto.

This afternoon we drove to the next site, and tonight we met up with three other colleagues. Let's call them ADSL, VoIP and PSTN. They had decided long ago to go out tonight, eat food and have a few drinks.

We found a restaurant and got a table. ADSL started eyeing the waitresses. And the women at other tables. Anything with a pulse, really.

I left early. No alcohol for me today, though lots of mirth and laughter around the table. I work with good people. I walked over to the bar and paid for my food. The girl behind the counter was the same waitress ADSL had been eyeing. "Take good care of my friend", I told her before I left.

Twenty minutes later I texted You Wouldn't Like Me to let him know that I had rescued his laptop from our parked car. "Let ADSL know I told the waitress to take good care of him", I added. The response came quickly: "She already told him herself". Mission accomplished.

Blame it on a brief bout of sentimentality

2009-07-14T23:25:00.000+02:00

I'm not a sentimental guy. Not really. I do have some things that have been with my for a while, though, that I treasure. And today, when I realized one of them was missing I got sentimental.

Back in 1991 (I think) I spent three weeks in a language program on the Isle of Wight outside Great Britain. I didn't get a whole lot out of that, that has stayed with me, except two things: that we taught our host's parrot to curse in Swedish, and a bookmark.

That bookmark, a simple black leather thing with a Stonehenge logo (since I bought it at Stonehenge), has been with me since then. I haven't read a book in eighteen years where it hasn't been between the pages. It's been a part of my life longer than The Beard. And now it's gone. Gone gone without a trace. Strange that the loss of such a trivial thing can affect me like this.

Most likely it's because of all the memories associated with that bookmark. All those hours spent with a paperback in my hands, escaping to other worlds, on the train, at home, in the car, during lunch hour at work, outside, inside.

I looked for it in the places where I thought it might be, in some books I've read recently, on the table where I keep a pile of stuff, in the drawer where I keep even more stuff. Nowhere to be seen. To be continued.

There is only one better thing than music - live music

2009-07-12T21:26:00.001+02:00

The last couple of weeks have been all about intense musical experiences, from two festivals and a fantastic live gig in between. Turns out I'm going to yet another festival.

Sonisphere is a traveling festival making the rounds in Europe, and on Saturday its Sweden's turn. Through some bizarre turn of events I managed to win tickets yesterday. Metallica is headlining, and while I'm not a fan, they're a killer live band. I will also get to see Mastodon, Lamb of God, Meshuggah and Machine Head, among others. Yay!

I need to find some way to avoid hearing even the slightest hint of Cradle of Filth, though....

And if I don't get to hear this song, I'll be sad.

Born again? No, I am not. Excuse me for getting it right the first time

2009-07-08T22:45:00.002+02:00

This must be some conspiracy at work.

Two days ago I met a religious nut on the train to work. Today, a small, unassuming man came up to me on the train home and handed me what appeared to be a yellow business card. Now, would I have written this post if it was a business card? Hell, no. Which, it turns out, is a very appropriate word here. Hell.

I can't take a good picture of the thing, so I'll paraphrase here. It said:

“Jesus loves people. All have sinned. You have sinned and the penalty for sin is eternal death. Only Jesus can save you from hell to heaven. God's gift to you through Jesus Christ is fellowship with God and eternal life. Welcome Jesus Christ into your life!”

I'm not kidding. I'm looking at the damn thing right now. What the hell is going on? Have the religious nutters of Sweden decided to band together and convert me? Has there been some secret meeting where members of various Christian churches sat down and said, “that bearded, black-clad must be brought into the light of the God-Emperor...I mean Christ!” I'd like to think they said God-Emperor. That's so much cooler than Christ. But maybe not.

Seriously. What the hell is going on? Are we experiencing a tsunami of religion through what is a pretty secular country? Will I be accosted frequently by morons that believe I need to be “saved”? If it continues, I will snap at some point, that's for sure.

Now, from the headline of this post and previous posts you might get the idea that I'm prejudiced towards religious people. And you would be right. I'm a fairly open-minded guy when it comes to most things, but I've yet to come across someone that has been able to explain “faith” to me in a way that makes me understand why someone else can believe. I think I've mentioned before that I have some very intelligent friends that believe, that would describe themselves as Christians, and even one that works as a priest. I need to talk to them. And soon. If this madness continues it may be too late to pull me back from my prejudices.

The presence unfound comes to me now

2009-07-07T19:21:00.000+02:00

This is Neurosis, performing "Through Silver In Blood" and "Times of Grace" at the Roadburn Festival in the Netherlands, in April of this year. Fantastic.

Oh. And Steve von Till has a pretty cool beard.

Isn't it interesting... religious behavior is so close to being crazy that we can't tell them apart

2009-07-06T22:15:00.001+02:00

I've had two religious experiences over the last few days. As in “brushes with religion”, not actual religious experiences. I only have those at live gigs.

The first was a few days back, as I was getting on the bus. Further back, at the middle door, what appeared to be an old imam got on. He had a great white beard, a shaved upper lip, a knitted white cap and a walker. I walked by him as he was settling in, and as I passed him be looked up. Nodded slowly. Sagely. Like a mentor to his student. Like Obi-Wan to Luke. I nodded back. Slowly. Sat down. Smiled.

So the guy thought I was Muslim. If I shaved my upper lip too, which I've done before, I would probably get a very interesting experience the next time I try to go to the US. When I went the last two times I made sure to braid my beard, to avoid being mistaken for a Taliban. Plastic gloves and lubricant ain't my idea of a good time.

The second one was on the train this morning. Picture this. Me sitting on the train, wearing a black Neurosis tee and baggy gray cargo pants, reading Cormac McCarthy's “Blood Meridian”, headphones on, probably leaking some Neurosis noise (yes, I'm currently seriously in love with that band. Again). A woman sits down next to me. Sits still for a while, maybe one station, and I feel her looking at me.

Then she taps my shoulder, I remove my headphones and she says, and I'm so not kidding, “Have you accepted Jesus as your savior?”. What. The. Hell.

Religion and I aren't friends. We're barely on speaking terms. And this is why. Nut cases on the train that want to “save me”.

My response then? “Eh...no”. Eloquent, eh? It was 07:15 in the morning. Give me a break. My brain wasn't up to warp speed yet. Then she goes off on this rant how Satan is in music, in books, in movies. I guess the word “Blood” on the cover was a dead giveaway. Me and Cormac, worshiping the Great Old Ones together. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!!

There were two things I could do.
1. Explode and rant back at the misguided fool. I was tired from a weekend of uneven sleep patterns, and cranky. A recipe for disaster, but oh so rewarding.
2. Get up and walk away.

Wisely, I chose number 2. I am The Bigger Man. When she got off at the Central Station she looked over at me with a look like “I pity you that you cannot see the way to avoid burning in hell, you poor man”. Again, the temptation was great to back up and go with item number 1 above. Instead, I took a few deep breaths and went back to the book. Don't let the fuckers get you down.

But then there's a moment like tonight, a profound and transcendent experience

2009-07-04T19:53:00.002+02:00

Second weekend in a row at a festival. I had planned to work in between, but was instead out cold with the Stomach Virus From Hell that managed to take down five out of the seven people that shared our house at the Peace & Love festival. Surely this was a weapons test of some kind. A military jet passed over the lake one day, when we were sitting on the porch, enjoying or trying to avoid the summer sun (that last bit would apply to me and Mah Girl). It must have dosed us with something.

And of course Faith No More was awesome. Phenomenal. Other bands watching Mike Patton lead his troops should just cease to exist out of sheer embarressment that they can't measure up. Might be the best front man ever. They worked their way through all their albums, and managed to play almost every single song that was at the top of my wish list. Telepathy was somehow involved. Me and Mister Patton communicating on some unknown mental frequency.

On Wednesday I got to see the mighty Neurosis annihilate a club in Stockholm once again. Not quite as intense as the last time I saw them, except the final song, "Through Silver In Blood", which is one of my favorites and which felt like an element of a ritual performed by urban shamans in the depths of some concrete jungle. Awe-inspiring.

Now we're at the Arvika festival, or to be precise in the cabin we're renting, about 14 kilometers from Arvika. Just hanging out for now, watching Mah Girl drink a couple of cold ones and now dozing on the couch. So far, we've seen Nine Inch Nails and Depeche Mode, both of which were excellent, as well as some minor bands. Tonight, a few more, and then home tomorrow.

So three of my favorite bands, Faith No More, Neurosis and Nine Inch Nails, in six days. How the hell did that happen?

Looking at me, some might believe that the best part about this weekend isn't the music, but the fact that I'm the designated driver and get to drive my colleague Stefan's kick-ass car, an Audi S3 that feels like it has a jet engine in the back when you hit the gas. And they wouldn't be far wrong. Such a fun car to drive, and not only cause it has plenty of horsepower, but also because it handles really well. If I ever feel like spending 300 000 kronor on a car, I may just buy me one of those.

There is a profound lack of insanity in your country

2009-06-27T12:36:00.001+02:00

Our first day at Peace & Love turned out to be a disappointment. We had a problem with the rental car (the trunk was the size of a paperback, even though they had said it was much bigger, and we had four people in the car with festival luggage + beer to pack), which was solved by renting a larger, more expensive car. Believe me when I say angry emails will be written.

I have that from my father, who in turn has it from his father, who, I assume, got it from some angry god in the depths of Dalarna's lush forests. That ability to never relent in the face of promises broken, expectations not met and service not given is something that defines the Larsson family, much to the chagrin of my mother, who comes from a line of quiet and calm people, who express more with a shrug of the shoulders than words. Not saying my mother isn't eloquent, its just that if you go way up north in Sweden, people tend to face adversity the way a rock faces a river. They let it part around them to move on to piss off someone else. Me? I fight the river. Tooth and nail. May be meaningsless, but it has to be done. Tilting at windmills, and all that.

Case in point. My father used Eniro's map service to plot a course from their house in Karlskoga to our place in Stockholm. The direction function started on the wrong street, the one next to theirs. Now, it's not that my father is an idiot and doesn't know how to drive to Stockholm from his home, oh no. It's the principle that Things Should Be Correct. I'm the exact same way.

So what does he do? He emails them. And gets a polite response that, when read between the lines, is saying "we don't have the time to correct this problem because you live in NoWheresVille Sweden". Sooo not the thing to say.

He emails them again. And again. And again. Always the same sort of response. So he tries the competitor's website, Hitta. Lo and behold, their direction service works perfectly. So he takes a screen dump of Hitta's results and emails it to Eniro. Hey presto, problem solved in a matter of days.

So yeah. Angry emails will be written.

Someone else will also be getting an email. Why stop at one when there are other injustices, big and small, that need to be corrected? Or at least pointed out in angry, digital form?

The Peace & Love festival has grown to become the biggest music festival in Sweden this year, with 36 000 or 39 000 tickets sold, depending on who you ask or how you do your math. It seems they have grown too fast.

On Thursday we tried to find the place where you exchange tickets for festival passes. We walked and walked and walked. Got directions from various people, attached to the festival or not. It was chaos. Not a single sign to point us anywhere, or to even indicate the existence of an entrance to the festival grounds. All we found were gates that said "NO ENTRY! ARTISTS ONLY!" in a way that not only said we couldn't go in there, but that no entry would be found anywhere for anyone besides artists.

We finally found the place, and caught the middle part of Monster Magnet's set, which was painful to watch. A review will be up some time soon at Slavestate. Then we went back to the house and enjoyed the fact that we've rented what may well be the best festival accomodations I've ever seen or even heard about, and for a ridiculously low sum of money. Sometimes the gods are good.

Yesterday we watched a man whose level of anger makes mine seem a slightly glowing coal next to a mushroom cloud. Henry Rollins, former singer of Black Flag, later on in The Rollins Band, and now a world class spoken word artist. He entertained us for an hour, and had some very interesting things to say, wrapped in layers of sarcasm and insane stories. He expressed a fascination with Sweden, mostly expressed in the fact that we have "green forests, blue skies and water you can drink and that can sustain life". Not sure I agree with everything he said, such as the headline of this post. Both the rental place and the festival itself has proven that is not the case. However, so far his show has been the highlight of the festival, though we haven't seen much else.

Tonight Faith No More beckons. We're all excited.

Law and justice are not always the same. When they aren't, destroying the law may be the first step toward changing it

2009-06-23T22:45:00.003+02:00

Our attorney general (I know, I know, it's the American term, but Minister of Justice sounds too much like something out of a totalitarian vision of the future) Beatrice Ask wants to use manacles with positioning capabilities to keep track of underage criminals. The Swedish criminal justice system is already using similar manacles for adult criminals.

Back when I was in college, I had a period when I was living at home and studying over the Internet at a college in Sundsvall. I had a number of get-togethers there with the class, and being a poor student and since the school was 520 kilometers away, I had to be creative in finding travel solutions. There was a local trucking company that had a route from my home town to Sundsvall, and I could ride along free of charge, if only the drivers approved. And they did. It's a lonely job, driving a big-rig during five hours in the middle of the night.

One of the drivers had been convicted of assault, beating up a guy when he was drunk, and since he had no priors he didn't go to prison. Instead he wore a manacle around his ankle that kept track of his movements. He was allowed to be at work and at home and drive his truck to Sundsvall and back. Nothing else.

To me, this is a superior form of punishment/treatment. The guy had an alcohol problem, which was treated with Antabus, he got counseling to deal with anger management issues that it seemed like he really didn't have, and then the manacle to make sure he didn't get into trouble.

And now Ask wants to put manacles on underage criminals too. Right on, I say. A combination of therapy and keeping them away from whatever friends etc that are a bad influence sounds like the right way to go.

Of course, there are people opposing this idea, and not surprisingly from the other end of the political spectrum. Former Attorney General Thomas Bodström said (paraphrased and translated) “Beatrice Ask must realize that a manacle is an alternative to prison, and we don't put children in prison.”

But that there is the point, isn't it? This isn't putting children in prison. They can still go to school or work or whatever. And yes, I realize that treatment is needed too, as well as attention from child protective services or something similar to sort out conditions in the home, but just going with treatment is too soft, to me. Prison can turn into a downward spiral into further criminal activities. Using a manacle may seem like the middle ground, something you go for when the others seem to extreme, to either side. To me, though, it sounds like a real solution to a real problem.

Or, you know, you can just go with an exploding collar.

Rutger wasn't sure the collar went with the color of his eyes

The only real difference between medicine and poison is the dose....and intent

2009-06-21T00:57:00.001+02:00

I started a new drug on Monday. It's not that the old stuff wasn't working, it just wasn't working well enough. The Headache has reared it's ugly head enough times over the two and a half years it's been around this time, that it seemed like a good idea. My neurologist (grown-up points, right there) pointed me to something that's only recently been deemed effective against neuropathic headaches. See, we're learning new words today, children.

I've slowly increased the dosage of the new stuff, pills that are so small I'm not even sure I've swallowed them until I let my tongue go a-wandering inside my mouth, while decreasing the dosage of Neurontin. So far, so good. No flare-ups yet. I'm only down to five Neurontin pills though, so there's still some way to go. Here's hoping.

Pills aren't really my thing. Up until six years ago, I couldn't even swallow pills, really. I was one of those people that ask their doctor for medicine in liquid form. I've always been like that. When I was seven and had pneumonia my mom ground up the antibiotics in ice cream. I didn't eat vanilla ice cream for a while after that...

Yet another thing Mah Girl has taught me. She's kept the calendar page where she wrote “Martin lost his pill virginity”.

Still, pills aren't really my thing. I hesitate before I even take Ibuprofen for a regular headache. Eating ten pills a day, which I did at one point this week, was excruciating. And not because I have a problem swallowing them anymore, just that I don't like eating pills.

I think it comes down to being a control freak. Having to pop pills meaning suffering from something I can't control. Which annoys the hell out of me. But I like being a control freak. It's sort of comforting. A damp blanket of borderline derangement that I like to wrap around my mind. Mmm, comfy.

Reunited, and it feels so good

2009-06-14T11:10:00.002+02:00

Faith No More, live at Brixton Academy four days ago. The big question is what he does to the poor security guard about four minutes in...

The countdown has begun. Less than two weeks left.

For a while I spent my time getting all pissed off at traffic lights

2009-06-12T22:58:00.003+02:00

Does this ever happen in Stockholm? Or any major city? I pulled up to a traffic light yesterday, in Sweden's Armpit, my hometown of old. Another car right in front of me. It turns red. We stop. I look right. I look left. Not a car, anywhere. No pedestrians, no bikes, no nothing. The crosswalk lights remain red. Our light remains red. After about a minute it turns green and we move on.

Now, I don't suffer from road rage, really. Like any driver I get pissed at my fellow drivers sometimes, and this could have raised my pulse quite a bit too. However, it felt surreal enough that all I could do was smile about it. For some reason it felt like I was watching from the sidelines, pointing at the suckers just standing there, waiting, for no reason. And I was the sucker.

If you can't spot the sucker in the first half hour at the table, then you ARE the sucker.
- Matt Damon, "Rounders"

Democracy is the worst form of government except for all those others that have been tried

2009-06-07T21:52:00.001+02:00

They tell me tonight is an important night for Europe. They tell me how we cast our votes decides the future of Europe. This time, there may actually be some truth in that statement. Unfortunately, once again people prove they are morons.

My ambition when casting my vote has always to know where the parties stand on a few key issues, issues that are important to me. There have been times when I have considered myself fairly informed, and other times when I haven't known squat. This time, it was far more important who I didn't vote for than who I voted for.

There are forces at work today in Europe, forces that on many levels are the same as those that cast their shadow across the world in the 1930's and 40's. Right-wing extremism is an issue that makes file sharing look so insignificant it's almost ridiculous. Yes, I agree that there are privacy issues at stake, as well as the perceived freedom of the Internet, but making sure those swastika-toting, bottom-of-the-gene-pool-swimming motherfuckers don't get seats in the EU parliament is far more important.

Sweden seems to have understood that, though the jury is still out. Voters in other countries seem to have left their brains at home, though, when they went a-votin'. Denmark. The Netherlands. Have you learned nothing from history?

Economic difficulties and disenfranchised youth has been the breeding ground for violent fascist groups for a long time, and this time it appears it's no different. I for one despair if the Europe we're a part of will have political extremists and racists influencing our way forward. I can't see how anyone with half a brain would think otherwise.

Of course, I have to say something about them boys with parrots on their shoulders, eye patches and yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, me mateys. They're not my mateys, that's for sure. I agree with them on some issues, but as anyone that has had the time to discuss file sharing with me knows, I think illegal file sharing is a plague that needs to eradicated.

Now I'm watching preliminary results, and the Pirate Party has 7.4 percent. I fully believe that a lot of people voting for them know about the issues they stand for and can argue very well for them, but at the same time I believe a lot of people have voted for them just because they're too cheap to pay for music, movies, books. Thinking those things should be free for everyone and thinking the same amount and quality of said music, movies, books, would still exist, is extremely naïve to me.

Whatever. I've cast my vote and done my part for democracy. If I had some say in the matter, there would have been a lot more info more readily available on where the parties stood on the issues. And oh yeah, politicians wouldn't be two-faced liars either. Not holding my breath for that one.

Garlic bread? Garlic bread? Garlic? Bread? Am I hearin' you right? Garlic bread?

2009-06-06T14:29:00.004+02:00

I like cooking. I'm not a ninja in the kitchen, on any level, but I like cooking. I've also done some baking over the years. My grand mother's chocolate cake, the kick-ass bread Mah Girl's mom has taught us, and the occassional muffin.

Yesterday Mah Girl turned 30 - hip hip hurrah! - and I had to bake a cake. Why? She made me one for my thirtieth. With the little bearded smiley I sign with on top, in chocolate Smarties. I was pleasantly surprised, and I've felt the pressure for three and half years.

I didn't really bake one. I made one. From pre-fab cake stuff. With chocolate pudding, vanilla custard and cream. It turned out very nicely. Especially today, with all the ingredients having spent 24 hours slowly melding together. Yummy yummy, I've got love in my tummy. Harry is a happy camper today.

Tonight we will celebrate Mah Girl properly, with a visit to Garlic & Shots with some friends, and then off for drinks at Lilla Hotellbaren. Come by Lilla after eight or nine, if you wanna join!

If I want a rush I just get out of a chair when I'm not expecting it

2009-06-04T21:48:00.002+02:00

We saw the one and only Dylan Moran on Monday. It was...bliss. I laughed for ninety minutes. With a pause so Mr Moran could get some more red wine. And he spoke to me.

Not really to me specifically, but about people like me. I'm not quoting him to the letter now, but it went a little something like this:

There's a certain kind of man, around thirty (this is pronounced “tuurty” in Irish), who wears t-shirts meant for children, t-shirts that say “Zap” or “Pow” across the chest, and pants that you're not really sure if they're pants or shorts. What this kind of clothing says is “I don't ever want to get a real job, and I will be drinking milkshakes for the next fifteen years. Fuck off”. These men spend all their time with their friends, playing video games. These men are single. They will remain single. This is why there are so many women who never find the one. He's busy playing video games, drinking milkshakes. And if he ever has children all he has to teach them is how to get past the snakes on level six.

For the record, the night in question I was wearing a Skynet tee and my favorite baggy, long denim shorts. I like milkshakes. I like video games. I'm never having children. Never ever? Never ever ever. Mah Girl theorized that he saw me before the show and only avoided mentioning the beard to spare my feelings.

I have no problem with people seeing me as childish or as someone not capable of contributing to the continuation of the human race. There's too much crap floating around in the gene pool anyway, so why add my own flaws there?

I'm quite happy with who I am, on that level. Childishness is something to be cherished, cultivated, and used. Childishness is joy, and simple joys at that. I mean, come on, if you can't laugh so hard your jaws hurt and tears run down your cheeks at things (like when we play Lego Star Wars, for example), you're dead inside. And who would want to be that?

Is this love? That I'm feeling?

2009-06-03T21:51:00.000+02:00

In a few weeks we'll be going to a couple of kick-ass music festivals. Two weekends in a row, with two separate groups of friends. So tonight we were looking over the expenses for the accommodations, since there's no way in any kind of hell that I'm sleeping in a tent surrounded by thousands of sixteen year olds drunk off their asses. It's not an age thing. Really, it's not. I felt the same way when I was sixteen.

Anyway. So we were looking over expenses, and Mah Girl marveled at how cheap the cottage we're renting for one of the festivals is.

“I mean”, she said, “it's that cheap per person and there's only three of us.” I looked over at her, and said “We're going with Stefan and Nils”.

She frowned and said: “I wonder who I wasn't counting?” Pause. Small smile. “It was probably you”.

Makes the heart all warm and cozy, don't it?

Game over, man! Game over!

2009-06-02T23:07:00.006+02:00

So we look at a game trailer, Mah Girl and I, and she says:
"Sure, you can play that game. If we keep all the lights on. And get a flame thrower."

I don't care if this game sucks slimy Alien eggs. I'll buy it anyway. Probably three copies. One for the altar, and one extra in case the one I play breaks.

And I know the clip is too wide for the blog. It deserves that much space, OK?

This must've been someone who came to work covered in children's blood every morning

2009-05-30T17:21:00.002+02:00

2009 may be the most spectacular year I've ever experienced, entertainment-wise. At least if we're talking live entertainment. So far this year, we've seen Wintersleep and Wovenhand live, both of which were spectacular. This summer I get to see three of my fave bands (Nine Inch Nails, Faith No More and Neurosis) in seven days. I may just overload on near religious musical experiences.

And on Monday we get to see Dylan Moran. A bitter, chain smoking, wine drinking Irishman, who is one of our favorite standup comics. Oh the joy!

How lies have fed your legend, Harry!

2009-05-27T21:59:00.000+02:00

I was supposed to have the aftertaste of pecan pie in my mouth now. And my stomach full of steak. And pecan pie on top of the steak. But no. Harry had to give me attitude.

Harry, you ask? My stomach. Hairy Harry. Who is gay.

And before you even go there, it's the only part of my body I have named. Because he talks. Because he has a personality. And because he can hold a grudge. I have taught him well.

He has a partner too. Tommy. Tommy the Tummy. They speak to each other. We're pretty sure they run around the apartment at night and do all sorts of mischief. That they have wild monkey sex on the couch. That's what the stains are from, yes of course.

Usually I like Harry. We've been friends for a long time. Today, though, I'm holding the grudge. He'd better get his act together by tomorrow.

A mercenary, a psychopath & a bundle of cash...what could go wrong?

2009-05-26T21:54:00.003+02:00

Again, a question of plot.

I recently finished the game Kane & Lynch: Dead Men, on my Xbox 360. It received mixed reviews, and some people I know with insight into the gaming business sort of sneered when I said I had bought it.

Lynch was a bit pissed at Kane's snoring and bought him a Breathe-Right

In the campaign mode, you play Kane, a former merc who is rescued from a prison transport and then paired up with an unstable psycho called Lynch to retrieve a large sum of money that Kane supposedly stole from his former mercenary partners, The7. The game involves shootouts, sneaking around, family members murdered, betrayals, yada yada yada.

Kane & Lynch is definitely not the best game I've played, nor is it the worst. And while there are some problems with the actual mechanics of the game (is that the right term, oh game geeks? Mechanics?), the main problem is the story. The plot.

It begins promising, but clichéd, then builds through a number of cityscape scenes obviously inspired by, among others, Michael Mann's Heat (Best. Shootout. Ever.). Unfortunately, the end doesn't deliver, at all, and throughout the game, it feels as if there are cut scenes missing between levels, and no real explanation of why you move from one setting to the next.

With more time, more work on the story and a more powerful ending, this could have been a great game. Dark and intense, and above all different. Now it feels like any low-rate action thriller that didn't get the proper budget or script treatment. Too bad.

Oh. Of course there's a movie in the making. Lo and behold, it's stunt coordinator/second unit director Simon Crane who'll make his directorial debut, and rumors point to Bruce Willis starring as Kane and possible Mickey Rourke or Billy Bob Thornton as Lynch. In the hands of an experienced director and above all an experienced screenwriter (Kyle Ward has written one movie that no one has heard of), Kane & Lynch could be really great. Again: dark, intense, different. Is it too much to ask for the Coen Brothers or David Fincher to do a video game adaptation? Script by Jonathan Nolan? No?

Driven by need for transcendence

2009-05-24T20:53:00.000+02:00

I realized today just how much I miss this band. This is “Tat Twam Asi”, off earthtone9's third and final full-length, “arc'tan'gent”.

I had the privilege of watching et9 live twice, when they opened in Stockholm for both Pitchshifter and Fear Factory. They were a tragically overlooked band that deserved a lot more attention than they got. That's the way it often goes.

If the audience never understands the plot, it can be counted on to be attentive to the very end

2009-05-23T23:21:00.001+02:00

The concepts of plot, narrative and story have been occupying my thoughts a lot lately. Not just in connection with my own writing, but more generally as well.

I like being confused. I like having no idea what the hell is going on. When I read a book or see a movie that is. I'm not talking a story with unnecessary twists and turns, confusion for the sake of confusion, but a well-crafted tale that asks as many questions as it supplies answers. Open-ended stories, or stories that end with a punch in the stomach, are my favorites.

One problem I have with a lot of movies, and TV shows for that matter, is that they assume the viewers are stupid. When a character has a flash-back to something we saw only 30 minutes ago, they see the need to show that specific flash-back instead of assuming we can get into the character's head. This dumbing down, the assumption that those watching cannot think for themselves, infuriates me to no end.

And yes, this is the kinds of things I fill my head with. What I walk around being irritated about. I can't help it.

So, when I see or read something which doesn't assume I have the attention span of a six-year old with ADD, I get excited. When someone sees fit to craft a story that doesn't end the way you expect, or that simply goes against convention and ends badly, if it's an American movie, I get excited.

We're watching Stranger Than Fiction tonight. A movie that at its very center deals with the concept of narrative. If you haven't seen it, see it. It excites me.

There are other worlds than these

2009-05-19T22:24:00.001+02:00

If I had a choice what to do with my time, I would write. Spend my days hunched over a laptop, tappin' away. Creating worlds. Crafting words.

I think a lot of people nurture dreams of writing. “If only I had the time I would write a novel”, and all that. I have spent some time wondering why this is. And I've come to the conclusion that I can only answer for myself. I have no idea why others want to write. Do you? Do you want to write, and if so, why? Tell me.

For me, it's all about worlds. A word, a phrase, a picture, a movie, a smell, can trigger a landslide of images and words inside my head. If I don't get them out, by writing them down, I think I would go mad. Seriously, full-blown, off the wall crazy.

There's a theory that every writer has two personalities inside of him, sometimes working together, sometimes in all-out war. Here's my take on that.

There's the Writer, who's the creative font, the one that can sit down and write hundreds of words without meaning, just to write. Just to see the pen move across the paper, or fingers across keyboard. He's the guy that stands up at the party and recites poetry, perhaps not correctly, but with passion and a smile on his face.

The Editor, on the other hand, is all about rules and regulations, structure and grammar. Creating something with no substance and, even worse, no form, is anathema to the Editor. There has to be a beginning, a middle and an end, and a clear path leading from one to the next to the last, preferably before he even sits down to write. Mindmaps and outlines and synopses are his favored tools. He's the guy who corrects the guy standing up at the party reciting poetry. And smirks while he does it.

For those of you that know me, it should come as no surprise that my Editor is stronger than my Writer. I'm a planner and a control freak. My Writer spends most days in a dusty corner of my mind, bound, gagged and blindfolded, while my Editor spends two weeks dissecting a single sentence, over and over and over. When he has a bad day he goes over and pulls a couple of the Writer's fingernails, just to watch him squirm.

I've read some books on writing, and discussed the craft a lot in the writing class (the good one) I've taken, where the idea of morning writing sessions has come up. This is the idea that you should get up an hour earlier every day and write. Keep the pen or fingers moving, regardless of what comes out. Even if you just write “I can't write. I can't write. I can't write” for sixty minutes. The very idea makes my Editor run around screaming in my head. Maybe that's why I have The Headache...

I need structure to write. Peace of mind. Time. Sure, an idea may come to me at the oddest moment, and I write it down, usually in my phone or in an email I send to myself, like a little treasure for me to unearth and polish a few days later. But if I try to sit down and just write, let the words flow, I feel miserable with the meaningless shit that comes out. Words without meaning have no meaning. On occasion, I've had what the class calls “a writing frenzy”, but it's a rare occurrence and even when I do, I manage to write something that has meaning and that I can edit into something worthwhile. “I can't write. I can't write. I can't write” over and over says nothing to me except that: I can't write. And I know that ain't true.

Pain is always new to the sufferer, but loses its originality for those around him

2009-05-17T21:48:00.000+02:00

The Headache has been tormenting me for a couple of days. Its hard to describe how unfocused I become when the attacks punch through the haze of Neurontin. Before the pills, before they diagnosed me, the attacks were so bad I cried, and I spent two months cooking, reading and talking walks. Woke up several times each night from the pain. Sitting in front of a computer was impossible, and I could only get through a movie with a couple of pauses.

Since I started poppin' pills this time around, which was in January 2007, its broken through the drugs a few times. Two weeks in late 2007, when I had to stay home, and an odd day here and there. And now.

This time around its nowhere near as bad as in November of 07. I had to stay home from work Thursday and Friday, because I couldn't focus and didn't get enough sleep, but I intend to work tomorrow, unless it gets a lot worse. There's only three working days this coming week, so I should be able to get through it regardless.

Staying home and feeling the headaches has allowed my mind to wander. When it hits, it obliterates every single thing going on in my head, and my mind just zooms off into the distance. I lose focus. I think of odd things. Some tie into other things I've had going on, stuff I've been writing or just thoughts and feelings, some are completely new. I write some of them down, I forget some of them when the next attack comes crashing in.

The Headache sucks. If I could change one single thing about myself here and now, it would be that. Remove the headache. Screw losing 20 kilos and screw thicker chin hair and screw winning the lottery. The Headache must go.

I have a telephone appointment with my neurologist next week. My guess is she'll say the same thing as last time, “you should be happy the pills work”, and I want to talk about redoing some tests and whatever. I've done the CT and the MRI and all that, but I want to do them again. Check it all again. I already have a second opinion, which is from the neurologist I'm seeing now, but whatever. I need to be sure.

Because when the mind wanders, it sometimes wanders off in darker directions than it should.

Children should be seen and not heard

2009-05-16T18:18:00.004+02:00

Today, in line at the grocery store, we were assaulted by what sounded like an air-raid siren. It was, in fact, a child. Face painted, most likely from a visit to McD's, screaming her lungs out like the horrible little banshee she was, howling at her parents, banging at walls, pillars, shopping carts, whatever. Such parental bliss. Such harmony. And the parents reacted soooo well, I think. I felt an urge to step up and start yelling as well. But I didn't. I thought of my happy place. Happy, happy, happy!

Two conclusions were drawn from this. One of them has been aired here before, but it needs to be said again.

Before I go any further I have to say I don't know jack about parenting. I don't want to know. I haven't really discussed the intricacies of actually forming a person out of the little bundle of joy and excruciating pain that's the sum of the genetic material of you and your significant other. Sure, the subject has come up, but I have nothing to add, and truth be told, since I don't plan on having children, ever, I don't really care. This might sound harsh, but it's true. Why discuss births and pregnancies and diapers and all that when it will never apply to you?

At the same time I am filled with nothing but pride over the friends and family members who actually manage the act of parenting. Who will, no doubt, make this a better world by filling it with complete, happy, stable people. You know who you are.

So. The conclusions.

There should be some sort of license required to spawn children. Or at least some sort of test after child one, to see if you actually do a good job and get to have another. I'm not a believer in any kind of genetic supremacy theories, but I do believe some people really shouldn't be parents. I applaud those that come to this conclusion themselves, and I loathe those that I see screaming at their children. Or worse, hitting them. Some time ago, I berated a woman on the subway that slapped her son when he wouldn't stop talking. Again, some people shouldn't have children.

The second conclusion is that my father was a parenting genius. When my brother and I got a little frisky, he would tell us to play carrots. Because carrots are silent and still. And we did.

I'm the one on the far right. Pre-beard.
My brother is second from the left.

We played carrots. To this day I can't believe it worked. He must have used some sort of hypnosis. Or maybe we were just very well-adjusted children. This is where Mah Girl says “or stupid”. I prefer well-adjusted.

The mastermind always wants more. It's criminal nature

2009-05-14T18:04:00.002+02:00

At home today. Feels like someone punched me with a blunt object across the right temple. My eye is more bloodshot than last night. I've felt the headache over the last few days, but dared to believe it wouldn't flare up again. I'm still hopeful, though I've slept a few hours today, the head is still throbbing and I'm still tired. Pointless. What evolutionary quirk decided that headaches were a good idea?

A side note (though not really). Six people answered this. There still has to be a few lurkers out there. Come on. What are you afraid of? Tell me who you are.

Male or female?
Age?
Where do you call home?
How did you discover the shows in my mind?
Have we met? Or be you a stranger?
What should I write more about?
Name a blog or three you think I would like.
Name a band I should check out.

It is in games that many men discover their paradise

2009-05-13T22:37:00.002+02:00

On Monday I participated in the City of Masks, a sort of pseudo-interactive theater walk through parts of Stockholm. It's a part of Maskspel, an ARG run by Interacting Arts.

It's been a long time since I was involved with anything even resembling the City of Masks, and it's only the second time I've been in an ARG. My other live game experiences have all been in a closed environment.

The experience, from within the game itself, is outlined in my post yesterday. Before I go into specific thoughts on it, I need to explain my standpoint when it comes to Interacting Arts. They have a lot of interesting ideas, especially regarding stepping outside your comfort zone, which I talked about here.

However, a lot of their ideas and events, including the City of Masks, contain undertones of both anarchism and primitivism, philosophies that I can't say I know a lot about, really, but which don't appeal to me. At all. Vandalism of public or private property is not my cup o' tea. Rejecting modern society isn't either. I like my TV, my Xbox, my iPod, my hot water, public transportation, etc. I'm not Tyler Durden. In any way, shape or form.

The City of Masks took the form of a long walk through various parts of Söder in Stockholm. We got a small pamphlet, with several maps and pages of texts, and downloaded sound files, that we listened to at set places along the way. A very interesting way of conveying a story/alternate reality game.

There were definitely moments when the story pulled me in, and I found myself living within the reality of the game. Above all it was when we walked through a series of allotment gardens, along winding paths, poking around a shed marked on the map and marveling at how the gardens climbed the hill above us, and when we walked through the crowd of people prepping the piers for summer, something which I believe was just a happy coincidence and not an actual part of the game. At times it did feel like we were in some kind of modern fairytale.

My main problem with the whole thing is that there were too many parts of the walk where nothing happened. We walked for a long while along Ringvägen without anything to listen to, and there were several places where they could have added a little something, someone in a mask, a madman, a Kerberos security guard, whatever, that could have heightened the experience considerably. As it was, there were too many places where we felt like reality intruded on the story, and we moved outside the alternate reality of the City of Masks.

My other gripe is that there wasn't enough story. I've read some of the background material, but not everything, and some hadn't read anything at all. I would have liked to see more context, more plot, if you will.

The overall experience was good, but I find myself a bit disappointed that the event didn't deliver the way it could have. I will, however, keep my eyes peeled for more events tied to the same ARG, and also other things Interacting Arts arrange.

Walking through The City of Masks

2009-05-12T22:30:00.007+02:00

Sunset over the City of Masks

We got the letter at Café Mineur, by ordering “the special”. A scattering of old couches and scuffed tables. Vaulted stone ceiling. Pillars. Ecological juices and veggie sandwiches on the menu.

Outside, a man stopped us. Pulled us aside, into a stone gate vault. He told us we had to make a choice. We could either go on the journey outlined in the letter, and in doing so, help the Masks, and see another reality than our own, or we could ignore it all and go home. “In that case it's only a matter of time before you're picked up and taken to an institution. They come down hard on those with ABCD.”

ABCD. As in Abnormal Behavior Control Disorder. Something that has been spreading, of late. We decided to help the Masks.

The first part of the journey took us to Hornstulls Strand. Down by the water, the Mask of the Elder hung from a pillar under a bridge. It spoke to us, of the woods that used to be here, of the roots that run below the city, of the cliffs down in the water.

Another Mask was waiting for us further along the water. The Elder spoke to us again as we walked there, speaking of the hidden pathways through the city, and the cottages that would be built on the mountain once civilization as we know it is gone. Once this reality has ended.

One of many tunnels we walked through

We walked past a number of piers and boats and sheds. Among them, dozens of people moved with purpose, raking leaves, moving dead branches, airing out their equipment sheds. It felt like we had walked into a fishing village, where the villagers were preparing their boats for the summer. The city felt very far away, and all we could see was water, boats and trees.

The Mask of Dreams was hanging from a gate into the mountain. It spoke of the tunnels the gate lead to, of the doorways to industrial complexes that used to be on the outskirts of Stockholm, of the secret harbors where ships and other vessels from other realities make port.

The gateway into the Underworld. The Mask of Dreams above it.

Directly across the pathway from the Mask of Dreams, was a pier, covered in debris, with an old fishing boat tied to it. The map in the letter had marked the pier as “Madame?”. We squeezed through the gate, which was permanently fixed in a half-open position. We saw Madame. She was brilliantly white and moved gracefully across the water. She didn't speak to us, but we could feel her approval of what we were doing.

We moved on, to a series of allotment gardens that climbed up the side of the hill. Pauline spoke to us as we walked up a series of winding stairs, and cautioned us. She told us of the wartime hospital underneath Södersjukhuset, where those wishing to control this reality bring those that have come in contact with the Masks, and those that exhibit symptoms of ABCD.

At the top of the hill, this sign awaited us.

At the crossroads Ringvägen/Götgatan, the Veiled Dancer spoke to us. She spoke to us of how the people around us can't express their emotions because the white noise anchors them too strongly in this rigid reality. As we walked futher down the road, a young girl seated by the side of the road gave us a small metal object wrapped in cloth. A part of the Machine underneath the city. Someone else sat singing, and a young man with a gas mask hanging from his belt swept the sidewalk in front of us. We had heard of him, in the words the Masks whispered to us.

The subway took us to the next stop on our journey, to the bridge above Katarinahissen, where the Mask of the Child was waiting for us. A poster from the Board For Social Control urged us to be on the lookout for a woman that might be suffering from psychic problems. She looked eerily similar to the girl on the street with the pieces of the Machine.

The poster from the Board of Social Control.

The Child urged us to find the child within ourselves, and wanted us to look at the city in new ways. Then we walked down an alley to Södermalmstorg, and sat there as the Mask of Fire spoke to us. It wanted to shine its light through the wall that separates our reality from that of the Masks. It told us we could become someone else than the one we are. That we could act outside the conventions of society, by channeling the characters of the Masks. “Do you want to change? Do you have a choice?”, it asked, and invited us to the Carnival that will change the city.

The Mask of Fire was waiting for us underneath a bridge. A Mask of hunger, of teeth, of primal urges. It guided us further on our walk through the city. Along the water again, towards the Mask of Flow. Up the side of another hill, a staircase, a winding path. Gardens, old houses of stone and wood. Pauline spoke to us again, and invited us into her garden. She had left the city, she said, but would return one day.

In the garden, others that wanted to help the Masks had gathered. Music played. A few people danced. Others sat, talking softly, eating. In a corner the man with the gas mask stood, leaning against a tree, quiet, apart from the others. I left quickly, certain that Kerberos guards would appear at any moment, and carry the revelers away.

I dreamed of the Masks the next night. A door opened in the depths of my being. Into darkness. Into light. Things will never be the same again...

Empty. The opposite of full

2009-05-11T16:31:00.001+02:00

I spent a few hours at our Other Office today. It's where our Billing and IT department sits, so lots and lots of really smart people, many of whom do things I couldn't even begin to wrap my head around.

It's a fairly big place, three floors of office space and one with conference rooms. And it's so quiet. Sitting here, I have to stop tapping away at my laptop to even hear other voices anywhere. I fully expect tumbleweeds made out of disused LAN cables to roll by at any moment. It's like an IT ghost town.

And really, it's not about the fact that there's about two empty workspaces for every one that is occupied. It's about the silence that seems to rule unchallenged here. That people just sit down and work. I was quite shocked when two people walked by, talking loudly. Surely these had to have been from outside, from another company, or another office at least?

And now I heard laughing. Distant. Muted. Through an open window, no doubt.

I'm not being an asshole here. I'm just curious as to why a company can have two offices so close to each other that feel completely different, on a cultural level. While being a bit of a smart-ass about it.

Windows are made in your mind

2009-05-10T23:00:00.001+02:00

It's been a good weekend. Good people. Good food. Good stuff.

Had meaningful conversations with some people. Talked about letting your guard down, which circumstances can trick you into doing and it turns out to be a good thing. Talked about not having children, ever, and the things you can do to live by that. Made lasagna. Ate lasagna. Marveled at how good a lasagna we make. Played some Lego Batman. Felt like a child again, which is a good thing. Which I should do more often. Listened to new Bat For Lashes songs. And Kongh. Lots and lots of Kongh. Read the 20th anniversary issue of Empire, which is guest edited by Stephen Spielberg. Realized, once again, that there are too many movies and not enough time. Worked on monster Kongh interview, soon up here. Hugged the girl. Watched lots and lots of TV. Hugged some more.

Now, sleep and dream. Tomorrow, off into the City of Masks. More on that tomorrow.

It's a mystery. Broken into a jigsaw puzzle. Wrapped in a conundrum. Hidden in a Chinese box

2009-05-07T20:01:00.000+02:00

Since I started writing here again, I've noticed a distinct spike in traffic. Nothing strange about that, but I'm curious as to who you people are. So riddle me this.

Male or female?
Age?
Where do you call home?
How did you discover the shows in my mind?
Have we met? Or be you a stranger?
What should I write more about?
Name a blog or three you think I would like.
Name a band I should check out.

Kind of sort of stolen from Cupcakes.

No one is so old that he does not think he could live another year

2009-05-06T21:20:00.001+02:00

I have vivid memories of my grandparents’ place. A big old house, some unnamed shade of green bleached by the sun, sitting at the end of a short gravel road, the massive yard dropping down behind it, rolling hills and all. I remember running around on those vast expanses of grass, with my brother and cousins and one in a long line of dogs my grandfather had.

I only really remember one of those dogs, Manne, a golden retriever that my brother called his cow. This was never questioned nor explained, it was simply one of those things that children say and that adults take for granted.

To me it seemed that the yard and the basement was the domain of my grandfather, while my grandmother ruled the house proper. She ran a very tight ship, though this is mostly a feeling and not the result of a series of hard facts that I can point to. Most of all I remember her cooking. The soft chocolate cake, the fish dish now named “Grandma fish”, and the peas. There were always too many peas. And my brother always ate them all. For those that know my brother, this should come as no great surprise.

The basement was a land of wonder and mystery to us. This was where we watched 8 mm films that my grandfather had shot with a handheld. This was where he had built a model railroad, landscaped with trees and buildings and tiny people. This was where the big boiler that kept the house warm lived, a massive monstrosity that smelled of grease and burning wood.

Watching films down there was like traveling in time. We would all walk down the stairs and then stare in awe as the pictures flickered to life. The color was off, everything was tinted red and the people captured there bore only a slight resemblance to my father and his brothers and sisters, as they gallivanted around on the shore of some lake, sunned themselves on the cliffs and boogie-boarded behind a boat. That’s all I remember from those films, though I’m sure we watched others as well.

The model railroad was a rare attraction, something we only got to see on a few occasions, and always displayed to us with a note of pride in my grandfather’s voice. It was a complex construction, twists and turns around a large room, and activated by an old-fashioned switching box, which brought the whole thing to life. That box seemed truly magical to me. Looking back, I think I might have expanded the size of the railroad construction in my imagination, and made it into something it was not, a fairytale land where tiny people came alive at the flick of a switch and trains always ran on time.

The boiler also took on aspects of the fantastic, of magic and the unexplained. My grandfather purchased a valve or controller or some other kind of thingamajig, a tiny little box that would somehow enhance the performance of the boiler, and told us that a small Japanese was working down there. In my mind this meant that a small man was actually working inside the boiler, throwing switches and splicing cables and shoveling wood chips. It wasn’t until years later that I understood what he had actually meant.

There was one other place in the house that truly belonged to my grandfather. His chair, in the corner of the living room right in front of the TV. He would sit there, stuff his pipe with tobacco and smoke. Always that smoke.

My grandmother passed away in 1984. It was sudden, and by all accounts very peaceful. By then they had moved out of the house and to an apartment. I have fragmented memories of the night the call came, and remember nothing of going to a funeral. Perhaps my brother and I were deemed to young to attend.

It’s been over twenty years and my grandfather is still around, just a few years shy of a hundred. There’s a theory that men rarely last long after their wives have passed away. Whoever coined that theory hasn’t met my grandfather. The river of life has simply parted around his blocky frame, and only started eroding him in recent years. And he still smokes.

In many ways the smell of pipe smoke is more a part of my memories than any visual input from that house. It permeated everything, and followed my grandfather wherever he went, like an extension of his body and soul. Movies, model trains, the dogs, the yard, everything is secondary to that smell. It has come to represent a feeling of contentment and happiness, the essence of family and summers, and the youthful innocence that is only a memory now.

This text was written a few years back for my creative writing class. I unearthed it from the depths of my hard drive today, like hidden treasure, and polished it a bit. I'm posting it today, since my grandfather Olof, now 98 years old, is in the hospital, and is in a bad way. He's lost 20 pounds in two weeks, and is deteriorating. Knowing him, he's probably furious at the thought.

He is the last of that generation left in my family, on either side. I love him dearly, and writing this now, I feel like crying. I hope he goes in peace.

As above, so below

2009-05-06T18:17:00.003+02:00

The summer hair do is now in place. I went to the barber on Thursday too, and trimmed the beard. Its approaching Gustav Vasaian proportions. Excellent.

Like...a ninja!

2009-05-06T13:07:00.002+02:00

Passed this on my way back to the office from lunch. I fully expect martial artists of different schools (Drunken Monkey Style! Crane Style! Etc Style!) to start launching themselves through the air at any moment.

Shadow of the Shapeless

2009-05-05T18:05:00.002+02:00

On Friday, I had the privilege of receiving an advance copy of Kongh's new album. And yes, Jesper. That's copy as in physical copy, and not a bunch of files. It's been the only thing in my player since then. A 60 minute, five track ride on riffs the size of Brontosauri. Not for the faint hearted, and so far the metal release of the year in my book. And oh yeah. The new Mastodon album sucks.

Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day, and on the good writing days nothing else matters

2009-05-04T22:30:00.002+02:00

I haven't written here in a month. No real reason, it just kind of happened. Inspiration has been running low, and I have been focusing on other things. My fiction writing has been suffering as well, though I have managed to come up with two embryos for stories for the workshop I hope to be part of next summer (one about time travel and JFK, and one about angels, kind of).

One of them was conceived and written today, aboard the train, using Laban, my new-ish laptop. Yes, of course laptops need names, don't be silly. The other one's called Lelle. He's in love with Mah Girl's laptop Lina. We were expecting a flock of little Palm Pilots or something, but alas, they're either saving themselves for marriage, suffering from reproductive problems or practicing safe sex. If they've gone religious on me, we'll be having us a laptop skeet shoot any day now. Just as long as they don't have an STD (Serial port Transmitted Disease).

Life has been a roller coaster ride of ups and downs lately. Tuesday was one of the worst working days I've had, ever. Actually, maybe top ten or twenty crap days ever, regardless of work or other circumstances. The Friday before was also epically bad. Just horror show bad.

Then Friday, three days ago, I began three days of bliss. Barbecue on Friday with good friends and then a visit from Mah Girl's best friend over the weekend, which included beer, drinks, steaks, movies (some good, some disappointing, some sooo bad), pizza, more beer and Wovenhand live. Excellent.

Some kind of balance has been reached, then. I'm hoping the universe won't read this and decide to pummel me again.

I should go to bed. And I will, soon. I intend to write more often than once a month from now on. Here's hoping I will.

Over the years, through good times and bad, through seasons of hope and change, she stood by me

2009-04-02T14:01:00.003+02:00

Today I feel like Jeremy Piven, about 28 seconds into this clip.

Minus the joint. And the receeding hairline.

Today its ten years since she became Mah Girl. We're celebrating at a dear friend's 30th birthday party, and then spending the weekend in a hotel. Yay!