Happy Whatever!

In this freezing cold morning I discovered I wasn’t walking alone.

One shall spend the NYE among dear friends. And so I did. Accidentally I had forced some of my dearest friends to tag along during the final promenade of ’09’s…

• LA-Mitch’s comfy sweater keept me at least somewhat warm.
• Two mismatching sports socks I must have stolen from Michael in Sundsvall.
• Then I had one single Tinsulate glove, which couch-crashing Patrick left behind after losing the other one. (yes, I wore only one glove. It was the only one found, and I kept warm by a loving cup of coffee in the other).
• And last, but not least a grey sock to cover my iPod, which I only can trace back to Christophe in Paris.

Then of course with another bunch of faithful ear-wise hang-arounds: (in order of today's shuffled apparence)

Maria Callas - Metallica - Anna Moffo - Lili&Susie - Renée Fleming Mylène Farmer - Jussi Björling - Army of Lovers - Mirella Freni Andreas Scholl - Leila K - Luciano Pavarotti - AC/DC - Jamie Thietten - Sir Thomas Beechham - Janis Joplin - Yves Montand Julia Varady - Thin Lizzy - Enrico Caruso and Barbara Streisand

And it’s only lunch yet…

Off for an afternoon Champagne at Grand Hotel with friends in flesh in order to bitch slap the remains of what could be the worst year ever.


But then again – aren’t they all?

// T.

End of Days

It’s the inescapable evidence of ageing.


I’m old, now it’s definite. Ageing may be fought with knifes, young lovers or even by peddling faster on the Stairmaster. But the very minute you start to actually appreciate pistachio – it’s over.

About 25 years ago there was this young man having his first (and only) honest job – an ice cream vendor. Throughout the summer when Joan Jett ruled, the pastel-colored sootiness was hardly touched - if there weren’t a busload of golden girls nearby.

Then, on the other hand, there were full wars. Catacomb-like catfights, hateful handbag hammering, and often the pavement was decorated with diminished dentures. All over the last scoops of the sweet green, but otherwise so unpopular ice cream.


Ever since, there has been no better symbol for the end of days than this. And now I've joined them.

Until yesterday I thought that only people who were classmates with Madonna or a T-Rex were fans of the green little nut and it's… eh, somewhat mature taste. Then, for the first time ever, I nodded in agree with the sweet taste of emerald-colored wheat bread.

Today, without even the slightest sign of any debating, I went for the pistachio pastries instead of the chocolates. And then for seconds. You can hide behind a stretched out face, fancy designers, sharp teeth or Kabala.

.

But remember pistachio.

The nasty little nut always tells the truth.

// T.

(We Want) The Same Thing

Can someone please have Belinda Carlisle call me?


She claimed that "True Heaven is a Place on Earth". I need to find out where.

+46 707 326 159

// T.

Contagious

I almost even braided my hair.


Dressing blue and runnin' around in the treetops for the last days were enough. Whenever I go to see a movie like Avatar with some soulful impact, I become a copycat.

Tonight I got a date with Russell Crowe since TV reruns Gladiator. Tomorrow I’ll head to work wearin' a roman soldier-skirt, and armed with a sword.


So don’t mess.

// T.

"Tony Equestrian"

Just discovered I was visually outed at a photographer's blogsite with this version of the famous scream by Edward Munch's...


Check it out - or lurk through it here in (bad) English signed Google translate.

"NOW CHRISTMAS SPLEEN OUGHT TO HAVE GONE TO..."

"Christmas in Aborrträsk and this is exactly as it should be a jul. I slept late and woke up myself. Step up, got coffee and watched as brother shoveled snow. Breakfast, lunch and walk to the grandmother for more coffee, biscuits and chat. Home again, food, sleep on the sofa, coffee and now soon to sleep. I like Christmas. Comes as a necessary pause and breathing holes in winter. But, understand if it is performance anxiety for many.

Today's picture is just anxiety. Tony Equestrian thought we should take such as we did last year's calendar pictures (Tony was December the picture) I like the picture. Thanks Tony for the idea:)"

I love the way Big G' twists my name into "Tony Equestrian". Beautiful!

Hope I won't make anyone disappointed.

// T.

About Christmas

Christmas kind of lost it somewhere between my sister's fridge and reality.

my sisters fridge...

Christmas.

Next year I ain't playin' the game of gluttony, and will send Santa away.

I'm celebrating with an empty fridge, take away and wine out of glass originally made for Mustard.

reality...

I'm sorry.

// T.

The Carpenter's Son

He was the unplanned and unhappy result of too much red wine and bad protection.


Normally a story gets better as it wanders from lips to lips throughout the years. The one about the bloke we call Christ is fantastic. But is Jesus - the reason why we celebrate Christmas - just a Gospel romantically retouched by some storytelling Photoshop.

About 2000 years ago Jesus was born. His mother, unmarried Maria and her husband to be, the carpenter Joseph, had been a bit too eager and he frankly forgot to pull out in time. Since they were still unmarried, Maria came up with the great idea that God himself had sent her his DNA through a Holy Ghost. And therefore, she could still cruise the streets of Nazareth with some legitimate decency.

When The Carpenter’s Son grew up he was bullied at school, became some kind of an outsider, and at an early age he started to hang out with the bad crowds. He soon turned to drugs and started to see things, and soon he was so drugged out and disillusioned that he started to believe in himself.


There was a bunch of hang arounds – actually 12 of them – who wanted the same weeds as The Carpenter’s Son was smoking. They all gathered by a lake where he let them get high on some hallucinogenic mushrooms he had obtained from his dealing aunt. This night they all thought they saw The Carpenter’s Son walk on water, but the truth is he was just trying out his homemade wakeboard. After all he was the son of a carpenter.

They hit the road, and started to piss of the authorities, just as the young druggies have a tendency to do, no matter of place, culture or time. Wherever there was a party, The Carpenter’s Son & Co went to have fun, and to lead others into his flower power lifestyle. (Ever wondered why "The Carpenters" was called "The Carpenters?" ) He was trolling for disciples at dinner parties, funerals, and even once at a leper colony.


The gang soon got into wild orgies in their new hometown Jerusalem. Since they were all men at this time, The Carpenter’s Son sometimes took the easy way, and especially a young loveable twink named Judas liked to please his master. When The Carpenter’s Son later got the hots for an old hooker named Mary Magdalene, Judas got jealous and wanted revenge.

Judas saw his chance, and in return for some money and a new donkey he sold out The Carpenter’s Son to the Italian mafia. The Godfather Pontius Pilate sent the hit man Barabbas to lead The Carpenter’s Son on, and fable as he was for macho criminals, he gladly got on the cross, where he died a mysteriously rock star-death during some scat games.

It could all have ended here, but no. Three days later he got out of his caved coffin and came to life again – as the first vampire ever. Well, that's another story. But somehow they forgot to tell.


According to the Gospels Jesus was the son of God. And not the Carpenter.

So.... Merry Christmas!

Amen!

// T.

Go Girl!

And I thought I was strange.

.

The mother of a friend of mine is moving to the Republic of Mali. And wants a Blues Harp for Christmas.

Me like.

// T.

Dental Preparation

Treat them the same way as with vampires.


Garlic. The only way to deal with your dentist.

Come on, bitch!

// T.

Training at the Beach

Just some work.

"Training at – and in the sea is a famous French deliciousness. A true truffle of Tricolor-trotting, which has blessed their heroic horses with numerous victories in all the world’s greatest races. Behind a dune in Normandy there is a stable. Right there, at the historical landmark Utah Beach…"

OK, the language is the same old Mumbo Jumbo called Swedish, but sea, salty winds, horses are still enjoyable. As is the chanting of Charles Trenét. Especially on a day like this, when the snowstorm is so compact that you can't even notice the tip of your own nose in front of your face.

The healing powers of sea weed and salty side winds are not only miracle makers among tired trotters.


It works on me too.

// T.

Fotage: Thomas Blomqvist
Editing: Niclas Widerström

Fresh Cotton

Sometimes you readers send me gifts.

UPS, FedEx and the Postal Service have so far delivered homemade Brownies, scented candles, Birgit Nilsson CDs, chocolate, a teddy bear and now – underwear.


Well, the underwear I had to pick up myself from the Post Office since the parcel was too big to fit my mailbox. The padded envelope contained two pairs of black Topeco boxer briefs size medium, attached by some nice words...

"After reading your blog about yours into pieces washed underwear (se The Farewell) I thought this would be the perfect Christmas gift.... .... I send them because I find them real comfortable, and think you should try them out."

Thank you, thats really kind.

I have been too bad at saying thanks for all the other above mentioned. So if you happen to read this posting, that "thanks" goes for you all.

And as for you others: I need a trip to The Maldives before they sink. I wouldn’t say no to a Jaguar E-Type, brown. I could also do with a bottle of Chateau Petrus 1958, and my wrist misses something which a Tag Heuer could fit to fill. OK?

Underwear.


And I thought it only happened to Tom Jones.

// T.

My Hometown

It shouldn’t be that hard of a combination to crack by the habitants.


Yet it always comes as a surprise every year, and paralyzed people passed on preparing - again. The white surprise out of the blue sky causes chaos, and it’s dead dangerous to be in the streets.

Cars crash and thigh bones trash. Trains run late and taxi drivers hate. (Well, the taxi drivers always hate, but they hate extra hard and extra many these days.)

Snow, December and Stockholm. It has happened since the ice age. Are we Swedes just dumb as the donkey’s ass, or are we incurable romantics?

I don’t know. So made an angel in the snow instead.


Just as last year.

// T.

About Santa

Kids...


Don't let 'em fool you. He doesn't exist.

Never did.

// T.

It's a Sin

Pure happiness wrapped in paper.

When I don’t get it on a regular basis - I don’t miss it. But all of a sudden I’m the worst sinner of them all. The fall from the pedestal of purity into the sea of sin was swift and brutal.


It is as if my body and soul get used to not having it at all.

Days, months and almost years can pass in between. No awareness. No abuse. But even I sometimes give in to temptation. And the very instant I take it between my lips, I want it again. And again. One per day isn’t enough. I need to have two. Or three…

We all want it differently when it comes to looks, sizes and tastes, and the market belongs to the buyer. You can find them lined up in almost any street corner, waiting and begging for it. Just scan them for the quick pick, or an advanced search for the perfect match.

It's worse than any drug.


Any time a day. Any day a year.

Chocolate bars.

// T.

The V-man

OK, the candelabrum might add some to it.


But my cameraman Mickey could still be taken for the brother of Nosferatu's. Today I almost got a bit scared. Just as a vampire, he revealed himself to possess an excellent X-ray vision.

The viewfinder of the camera suddenly died, and left was nothing but a black hole for him to stare into. Yet the V-man was able to capture the colorful chaos of a Christmas spectacle. Kudos.

I bow the deepest for a true professional.

Fangs or not.

// T.

A Love Electric

It was like grabbing an electric fence – and loving it!

It happened in the subway, and she was a flash of lightning right in my heart. Elektra shows no mercy. When she strikes you don’t stand a chance.

Birgit Nilsson and Barbro Ericsson in Stockholm 1965

Photo: Enar Merkel Rydberg, The Royal Swedish Opera Archives

2000 years ago Sophocles wrote the tragedy about a woman who hides the axe her father was murdered with, just to encourage her lost brother to kill their mother – with the very same weapon.

100 years ago Richard Strauss enchanted this gaiety with music, and the opera Elektra became the fearful pitfall of feelings which she today still is.

First I thought it was an upset stomach. But instead of decorating the crowded wagon with my own vomit, I was shivering and started to sweat. Then I discovered that the pain in my heart came from the iPod in my ears. I was on my way to a dinner date, but within two subway stations she lead me by her leach, and I couldn’t make myself get off the train.

Birgit Nilsson as Elektra and Berit Lindholm as Crysothemnis.

Photo: Enar Merkel Rydberg, The Royal Swedish Opera Archives

With the heroine of Strauss’ as a hammer drill in my haunted soul, I went all the way to the end station – and back. One and a half hour late, I literally collapsed in to my dinner date and confessed the tragic truth. He understood. After all, he was Greek.

It all happened years ago, but she is still as electrifying as ever. I don’t know if this is a warning or an encouragement, but Dec 12th, the axe will be swung at the Royal Swedish Opera. It’s at your own risk you get the ticket.

Place a lightning rod on your head. Use isolating car deck under the soles of your shoes, or turn around and run as fast as you can. And don’t forget to bid farewell of the ones you love, because you will be electrocuted long before the last bars of Elektra, where here the tragedy turns into triumph.

Katarina Dalayman as Elektra, Stockholm 2009.
Photo: Hans Nilsson, Royal Swedish Opera

Yours truly hereby disclaim all responsibilities.

// T.

Rumors

There has been a rumor out there for a while.


It says that Queen Silvia of Sweden is suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. I really hope this isn’t true, and I haven’t given it much thought. Until a few days ago when I heard it again - from someone I trust.

So I thought about it. Then it’s not that weird, that all of a sudden - within one year - there will be not only one, but two royal weddings in Sweden. It also gives somewhat of an explanation to why the wife of our head of state recently published a prayer book.

Today is Dec 10th - the day of The Nobel Prize. It’s the only day of the year when the royal family brings out the big guns and shake their tiaras in public. It’s all televised, and I hope I will only see the silk, smiles and shining diamonds. Not hidden sadness.


The true Cinderella Story about a hostess at the Munich Olympics ’72, who kissed a Prince and married a King is not supposed to end this way.

Please let rumors only be rumors.

// T.

Bora Bora

Isn't it typical?


Montgomery Scott...

... never around when you need a good beaming.

// T.

Killing Flipper

Would it have been the same reaction if Flipper would have been a shark?


I just saw a screening of The Cove. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an excellent film with a good cause, and not least – it showed that Paris Hilton has got a human touch.

It shows a true massacre, and to see the sea turn red of dolphin blood is scary and surely fulfill its purposes. Not to talk about all the truly heartbreaking death throes of calves just stabbed by the same spears as they just saw their older ones being slaughtered with.

I bet there weren’t noone in the audience NOT ready to kill a Japanese fisherman - Propaganda at its best.


I feel for the dolphins and it breaks my heart to see these intelligent animals suffer. But please also consider this:

• 2300 dolphins are killed every year in this massacre – for no specific reason other than poisoning Japanese school kids with mercury, and fill Sea World with their million dollar attractions.

• 70 000 000 sharks are killed every year in an illegal act called Shark Finning. 70 millions. Just to have their fins cut off and then thrown back into the ocean to drown. Because they make a descent soup, and that they supposedly bring luck at Chinese weddings.

The Cove sure is an eye-opener. And I hope it gets us to open them up as much so we also care about other, more directly man generated massacres.

If not, fact remains. Flipper has got a more media presentable smile than old old Jaws.

.

But always remember, whether it comes to both dolphins and sharks, we can not only make a difference.

We are the difference.

// T.

Act up for Jaws : The Shark Trust
Act up for Flips: Take Part - The Cove

Something Fishy

Miles, miles and yet miles of columns have been written about how ecstatic it can be to dip with dolphins or shake it with sharks.


But when did you last read a blog honoring the grayling?

OK, "Swimming with Graylings" has got a slightly less romantic touch. But still - the cyber silence is vast. The brain of our snapping-eager mountain guppy might be the one of a fish’s, and not possess the capacity of recognizing injustice and mistreat. So they are in desperate need of a noble knight.

It's so quiet, those if I was a grayling, I would even doubt the very existence of myself. Luckily the average grayling is a bit fish-eyed and haven’t got access to the Internet; otherwise we would have a bunch of suicidal self-searching salmon sisters at our hands.

I’m not saying I’m better than anyone else. A quick scroll down the list of postings reveal loads of horses, Great Whites, kittens, polar bears, hippos and other more media presentable species – no trace of the smallest baby grayling, what so ever. But from now on I want to be considered a converted grayling-sinner, as I present some hard facts.

• A newly caught grayling smells like thyme instead of fish.
• The Swedish name for grayling is “harr” and rolls really great over the tongue.

I have no idea of how I came to think about the grayling. Even less why I made it catch of the day on here. Guess it’s my soft spot for underdogs, and my noble quest of making injustices right.


Or maybe it’s only me practicing to write seriously - about nothing.

Ops. Hope the shimmering speciment called grayling didn’t hear that. At least there is one posting out there now wich is mentioning the word “grayling”.

Nine times.

// T.

Mission Completed

I didn’t get to kiss any busty blondes, nor did I get to save the world.


Being a freelancing TV-reporter is not exactly being James Bond, even if the opening line from one’s employer surprisingly often is the same; "Be at the airport tomorrow morning at 7 am!"

It’s all voluntary and called “Freelancing Freedom”. The phone rings – and you say; “Yes, Sir!”


Instead of The Bahamas, the destination was a Scandinavian beach town closed down for the winter. My disguise was sailing boots instead of a tux, and my battlefield wet gravel - not the Casino of Monte Carlo. I froze my ass off on prime time television, and my lips are sore as if I’ve been making out with a snowman.

But being an early bird has its benefits. I got to see a beautiful sunrise from above.


Better than any busty blonde...

// T.

Just Like Britney

Ops, he did it again...



As said before... the horse named The Horse.

One got to love the old gelding.

// T.

Softish

I really envy the mallard.


Born with a built-in bolster.

// T.

Deadly Impact

He might have died back in 1883, but he still have got a big influence on our society – and it’s a matter of life and death.


If it hadn’t been for old Richard, a man with a pipe, a cycling woman and especially her poor dog would be a lot less frightened. And yours truly would certainly feel a lot less guilty.

The Nazis loved to let their leather boots march right over Europe to his pace and rythm, and shamelessly they made him their's. Today people badmouth him for that, but a second later the same people happily march down the aisle for better, and for worse. All to the tones of his famous wedding march.

That the music of Richard Wagner’s was made for marching is pretty obvious. Therefore it’s also the natural choice for me in my everlasting crusade against the carbs. This morning I was whipped fast forward by him in form of Siegfried’s Funeral March. With the expression of the dead Siegfried himself on my face I faced a crossing and crossed it.


What I didn’t see was the Toyota containing a pipe smoking man with a hunch. He saw me (or more probably he saw a dead Wagnerian hero in big headphones) and panicked. Then grabbed the steering wheel in order to avoid a full frontal fuck up, and threw the Toyota in the direction of a totally innocent woman on a bicycle.

The woman only escaped the chain reaction of collision by colliding. Into her dog. The poor thing yelled, the woman fell and the pipe smoking hunchback almost drove his Toyota into the nearby canal before he was able to regain control of the rioting vehicle.

The ones who say that Wagner doesn’t affect our society today don’t know what they are talking about.

So I marched on.

.

It would never have happened with Abba.

// T.