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

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.

As me and my companions was setting out a snare

I spent a pleasant evening at a friend’s today. As always, topics discussed varied wildly, and there’s not really any fixed conversational path we walk down. I like that.

Today, the most fascinating topic, which wasn’t discussed at any length, was number stations. This is where we cue the X-Files theme song again. Sooooo cool. And quite geeky as well.

And oh yeah. I linked to Freud the other day. I was really aiming for this. Turns out Mah Girl knew exactly what I was looking for, even when I didn’t know myself. That’s often the case.

I shaved my head this weekend. I’ve sported a Mohawk in various configurations for a while now, but got fed up and took it all off. “You look weird”, Mah Girl said. I’m used to that verdict when I change my hair or beard. However, this time it went one step further. Behold:

Female colleague: “You look weird.”
Me: “I think I look nice.”
Female colleague: “What does Your Girl think?”
Me: “She thinks I look weird.”
Female colleague: “Look at it this way. Are you going to have sex with her or yourself?”

Now where did I put that Mohawk? I should be able to glue it back on, right?

A condom is the glass slipper of our generation

I’ve made some observations today and while on vacation. A few truths/opinions/whatever I felt I needed to share with y’all. Enjoy.

- There’s a certain breed of sixteen year old girls, with hair bleached blond beyond anything nature could come up with, usually dressed in sweatpants, that should be eradicated from the face of the Earth.
- The perfect soundtrack to a rainy Stockholm is Cult of Luna’s “Eternal Kingdom” or Portishead’s self-titled second album.
- My own pillow trumps away-pillow any day of the week.
- If Heaven exists and I have been a good enough boy to get there (which isn't likely), Chokladfabriken will be the official supplier of dessert at the all you can eat buffet.
- There’s a substantial difference between “penetrating” and “penetrated”, a difference I almost experienced today. Long story short, I almost had an intimate moment with a gear stick.
- Stellan Skarsgård has six children. Excellent. He has filled my quota as well.
- The vending machines at the supermarket contain everything you need for a weekend that begins well but ends horribly. Except alcohol.

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.

‘twas a surreal day.

Rose petals fluttered down from a balcony, enveloping me in a cloud of red. Like I was in American Beauty. New faces behind the bar. No buddy prices anymore. For shame. A colleague wanted to order a Strawberry Dark Lee.

Walked from the first place to the other, stopping for a chorizo on the way. Garlic extravaganza. A police helicopter circling above. Felt like home.

Two beers in a place that played 80’s tunes. Two people working behind a bar that could have had six people working, easy. Waiting ten minutes in line for a beer. Yay. Mostly crap music, though Annie Lennox’s voice always brings a smile to my face. My legs decided it was a good idea to keep the beat on several occasions. Laughs ensued. Fingers pointed.

Talked for a while outside, in excellent company. Then rushing off to catch the last train. Half-way there The Stomach decided food was the only option. Stopped for food. Was joined again by the Excellent Company. Wowed a drunken young man (he was 23-ish. I’m old) by knowing the code to the bathroom.

They ree-he-heaaally don’t want you to use the urinal.

The code was 1337. My geekier…I mean more computer savvy friend pointed out it spells l33t. Me thinkest a geek worketh at McDonalds.

Took the night bus home. Turned out to be just another way to travel down the same tunnel. No excursions into territories unknown. No freak show galore. Sadly disappointed. The bus broke down. Waited for the next one, standing on a concrete pylon by a construction site.

Finally arrived. Had a nice walk from the bus stop home. At the train station, all the doors were locked, but the escalators were moving. For who? What ghosts haunt that place at night?

In the parking lot below, two people were setting their huge dogs after a hare. Coursing.

Tommy: What's coursing?
Turkish: Hare coursing. They set two lurchers - they're dogs, before you ask. On a hare. And the hare has to outrun the dogs.
Tommy: So, what if it doesn't?
Turkish: Well the big rabbit gets fucked, doesn't it.
Tommy:[pauses and thinks]Proper fucked?
Turkish: Yeah, Tommy. Before "Zee Germans" get there.

The hare didn’t get fucked. No Germans arrived. Yay for the hare.

The sky looked like mud sculpted by water. Dawn crept in, slowly. Mostly quiet. Fragments of a conversation carried across the school yard below our house. Nocturnal creatures moved through the undergrowth around the Rape Path.

In our yard, sounds from a porn film. Moaning. Groaning. No flickering lights in any window. Hope you enjoyed it, whoever you are.

Then inside. Water. Scribbled blog notes on a piece of paper. Barely legible. Went to bed. Content.

Oh yeah. There are goblins in Linda’s father’s house. Cool (beware, ‘tis in Swedish).

Foreplay

Tomorrow at 8 p.m. is the season finale of “Life”. An hour of Damian Lewis running around, seeking revenge. A good show, and since it’s a redheaded Englishman we’re talking about, I’m guaranteed to get me some afterward. Sweet!