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

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.

Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad

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.

Reunited, and it feels so good

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.

Is this love? That I'm feeling?

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?

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

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!

Time is the fire in which we burn

I used to not do emotion, really. I'm a very analytical person, which has gotten me into trouble, mental health-wise, at least twice. Analysis is good, but it's not the end all be all of existence. The brain can't always rule over heart and groin.

Before I had a tendency to repress emotion, to not even let it impact me. There have been periods in my life when, I think, I have felt nothing. Zero. Flatline. Walking through life an emotional zombie. Numb. Not anymore, though. I've learned to see the signs, and to break down the walls that were there. They're not all gone, but I'm doing my best to turn them into rubble.

Why did this come up today? I watched an episode of a fantastic TV show, where one of the main characters goes back home and visits her father, who's suffering from dementia. It was powerful stuff, and invisible fingers plucked at my emotional strings.

“I'm losing time”, one of the characters said. I was reminded of a visit this summer to my grandfather's. He's turning 100 in a few years. One hundred years old. The mind boggles. He still lives alone in his apartment, though with regular visits from Hemtjänsten. I have several very graphic memories spread throughout my childhood centered on my grandfather. One of them is his calendar, which is the wrong word but not really, a red plastic box with buttons on top that you push each day to move it forward a day, a month, a year. This summer that box stood on a shelf in the kitchen, covered in dust, the numerals stuck between two dates. Broken. It made me sad.

Time grinds down pretty much anything to dust.

I bought her flowers today. Lilies. And a chocolate muffin. She smiled. That made me smile. No analysis. Just a spur of the moment thing, because it's the third today. So it was a good day.

The truth. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution

To quote Dr Cox:

"Relationships? Well, Sigmund. Relationships are so... fragile. It just takes one thing, one... tiny little offense, and it can snowball on ya. And if that snowball starts to pick up speed, God forbid, you'd better tuck and go, my friend."

I'm not saying it's tiny. I'm just saying.

Burning bridges, building bunkers

I rarely remember my dreams. When I do they’re almost always nightmares. I am a very well-adjusted young man (anyone has a problem with me using young to describe myself? No? Excellent).

Last night I dreamt I was standing on a cliff or something rock-ish, watching a long rope bridge across a gorge. Yes, I admit, I expected thugees to appear, chasing an archeologist with a lopsided smile and a wrinkled fedora. But no such luck. Instead the thing started burning, and tumbled into the gorge. Looking down I realized I held a can of gasoline in my hand. Not the gas station kind, but the honest to goodness olds-school arsonist kind, round and with a spout. Then I woke up.

Shadow: What did you do to that little girl?
Ronald: It's not fair, Shadow.
Shadow: What did you do to that little girl?
Ronald: I burned her.
Shadow: You burned her. What do you do to old ladies, Ronald?
Ronald: Burn them.
Shadow: And what about the world, Ronald? What would you like to do with the whole world?
Ronald: Burn it all.

So am I harboring arsonist fantasies? Nope. Am I thinking about burning a bridge or two? The thought has crossed my mind. Today, and other days. More on that some other time.

And some more love at home today.

We made tortillas, and as we learned this weekend, they fall apart easily, just laying there on the plate. I decided it would be a good idea to stick a fork through my first one, holding it shut.
Me: Maybe you should use a fork too?
Mah Girl: Yes. But then you would be right.

Blood is a precious thing in these times

It’s a well-known fact that I’m a complete klutz. I spill milk. I drop things without any apparent reason. I fall out of all kinds of furniture to the amusement of others (mostly Mah Girl though).

Yet another notch on my belt today.

I was making pancakes, and turned around to adjust the volume on the CD player, when my feet decided it was a good idea to become entangled in two pieces of luggage on the floor. Why is there luggage on the kitchen floor, you ask? Why, because our landlord decided to renovate our basement storage area a while back, we had to store all our crap in the apartment and we’re so lazy we haven’t moved it back yet.

Anyway. Feet in luggage. I fell. Someone, somewhere, surely yelled “Timmmmbeeeeeerrrr!”. I managed to avoid smashing my face against the kitchen bench, and managed to fit my arm into the space between the bench and the shelf. All of it luck rather than skill.

On my feet, with minor aches and pains in my arms and legs and The Head. Continued making pancakes. Noticed a warm sensation on my shin. Whaddaya know? Blood!

All Band-Aid:ed up. Yes, those are ninjas.

It’s also a well-known fact that I’m a pale and hairy man. Pale Force, here I come!

Oh. And a short little something that took place in our loving home today.

Mah Girl: I almost pinched your ass…
(and here I was about to say “thank you for refraining from it”, as she continued)
…but then you moved away too quickly.

Can you feel the love?