Chicken Soup...
NyQuil...
Ibuprofen...
... and herbal Esberitox.Can't go wrong now.
2011 here I come...
...Party!
// T.
Friday, December 31, 2010
A Happy New Year
Stashed up on all my NYE party drugs in time.
Chicken Soup...
NyQuil...
Ibuprofen...
... and herbal Esberitox.
Can't go wrong now.
2011 here I come...
...Party!
// T.
Chicken Soup...NyQuil...Ibuprofen...... and herbal Esberitox.Can't go wrong now.
2011 here I come...
...Party!
// T.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
A Whithe(wash) Christmas
Two plastic baskets filled with cotton, regrets and DNA.
Just as in a happy marriage of figure skating and curling. In a very well practiced form of sliding pirouette I gracefully landed, and in the same sweeping movement I gently placed my laundry in front of two gaping washing machines.
The table is traditionally set with all the Christmas delicacies like washing powder and stain remover. There isn't any shortage of surfactants, since X-mas is the time of good feasting and holy gluttony. My Schnapps will obviously be the obvious one, and I won't be greedy when feeding the fabric softener container with an endless line of apple scented shots.
I'm a true fundamentalist in it's most fundamental form. That's why I traditionally wait until Christmas day before I decorate the drying cupboard with colorful underwear and glittery garments, before I place a white wife-beater as the star of Bethlehem on top - and switch it on.
Luckily our tumble-drier is of the same height, width and rhythm of Mahalia Jackson, and with some good will and a powder-sniff I can easily sing along in Silent Night, Holy Night when it's time to dance around this mechanical X-mas tree-replacer.
Then there are loads of stockings to match later in front of the fire place. If I've been a real nice guy, Santa will hopefully have slipped a clean quarter in one of them, but I will probably find more of tumble-drier dust, or at least some unreadable paper fragments out of an un-emptied jeans pocket.
They sing about a white Christmas in the song.
Mine will at least be clean.
// T.
Just as in a happy marriage of figure skating and curling. In a very well practiced form of sliding pirouette I gracefully landed, and in the same sweeping movement I gently placed my laundry in front of two gaping washing machines.
The table is traditionally set with all the Christmas delicacies like washing powder and stain remover. There isn't any shortage of surfactants, since X-mas is the time of good feasting and holy gluttony. My Schnapps will obviously be the obvious one, and I won't be greedy when feeding the fabric softener container with an endless line of apple scented shots.
I'm a true fundamentalist in it's most fundamental form. That's why I traditionally wait until Christmas day before I decorate the drying cupboard with colorful underwear and glittery garments, before I place a white wife-beater as the star of Bethlehem on top - and switch it on.
Luckily our tumble-drier is of the same height, width and rhythm of Mahalia Jackson, and with some good will and a powder-sniff I can easily sing along in Silent Night, Holy Night when it's time to dance around this mechanical X-mas tree-replacer.
Then there are loads of stockings to match later in front of the fire place. If I've been a real nice guy, Santa will hopefully have slipped a clean quarter in one of them, but I will probably find more of tumble-drier dust, or at least some unreadable paper fragments out of an un-emptied jeans pocket.
They sing about a white Christmas in the song.
Mine will at least be clean.
// T.
Friday, December 24, 2010
A Different Gospel
He was the unplanned and unhappy result of too much red wine and bad protection.
Normally a story gets better as it wanders from word to mouth 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 crowd. 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 weed 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 off 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 the Holy Bible forgot to tell.
So.... Merry Christmas!
Amen!
// T.
Normally a story gets better as it wanders from word to mouth 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 crowd. 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 weed 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 off 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 the Holy Bible forgot to tell.
So.... Merry Christmas!
Amen!
// T.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
A Sad End
Earlier this month I wrote here about a baby palm tree fighting the concrete in my back alley.
When I got back home to Los Angeles last week I checked in on it. Or at least I tried to....
The baby palm tree is no more. It lost its struggle.
As said before: it’s a concrete world we live in, palm tree or not.
Hope it’s not symbolic.
// T.
When I got back home to Los Angeles last week I checked in on it. Or at least I tried to....
The baby palm tree is no more. It lost its struggle.
As said before: it’s a concrete world we live in, palm tree or not.
Hope it’s not symbolic.
// T.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
A Love Story
Love is a knife which slowly cuts you to pieces.
Carving and carving and carving until the only thing left is a heart beating out its hopeless hope in form of your darkening and darkening and darkening blood.
Until there is no more. Then it moves on.
Beware.
// T.
Carving and carving and carving until the only thing left is a heart beating out its hopeless hope in form of your darkening and darkening and darkening blood.
Until there is no more. Then it moves on.
Beware.
// T.
Monday, December 13, 2010
A Cleansing - Part 2
This time it happened in the dark backseat of a rental Renault in Paris.
It was painful. A part of me died right there. If I had known, I would never have let it happen.
All my life left behind.
But I guess it’s rather a new beginning than the end…
Paris, London… whatever.
// T.
"A Cleansing of Friends"
(The original - 2008-03-28)
The last thing I saw of my silver coloured Nokia 6500 and 300 stored numbers, was a silver coloured black taxi, disappearing into the London fog.
After desperately calling myself in order to get the taxi driver or one of his customers to answer, I gave up. Either they were to stupid and didn’t understand that this little metal thingy in the backseat which constantly is playing Maria Callas is a cell phone.
Or they just got tired of La Divina and tossed her right into The Thames. Along with her went for example contact information for a few Olympic gold medalists, a Eurovision Song contest-winner, my own grandmother and yes – two fantastic nights in Paris.
(I wonder what the conversations will be like down there, not that I’m going to the bottom with that. I just hope granny never took a single French class…)
I got tired of spending one Pound Sterling each time I heard my own voicemail voice, so I left one containing it’s funeral speech, hung up and tried to think positive. It’s in moments like this I wish I was a believer and could blame some other reason than my own stupidity – and just move on.
OK, co-workers and other business contacts is easy to retrieve, and I guess there are a reason that some brief encounters are just… brief. But I did come up with one thing that might not be so bad at all.
It was painful. A part of me died right there. If I had known, I would never have let it happen.
All my life left behind.
But I guess it’s rather a new beginning than the end…
Paris, London… whatever.
// T.
"A Cleansing of Friends"
(The original - 2008-03-28)
The last thing I saw of my silver coloured Nokia 6500 and 300 stored numbers, was a silver coloured black taxi, disappearing into the London fog.
After desperately calling myself in order to get the taxi driver or one of his customers to answer, I gave up. Either they were to stupid and didn’t understand that this little metal thingy in the backseat which constantly is playing Maria Callas is a cell phone.
Or they just got tired of La Divina and tossed her right into The Thames. Along with her went for example contact information for a few Olympic gold medalists, a Eurovision Song contest-winner, my own grandmother and yes – two fantastic nights in Paris.
(I wonder what the conversations will be like down there, not that I’m going to the bottom with that. I just hope granny never took a single French class…)
I got tired of spending one Pound Sterling each time I heard my own voicemail voice, so I left one containing it’s funeral speech, hung up and tried to think positive. It’s in moments like this I wish I was a believer and could blame some other reason than my own stupidity – and just move on.
OK, co-workers and other business contacts is easy to retrieve, and I guess there are a reason that some brief encounters are just… brief. But I did come up with one thing that might not be so bad at all.
.
.
Ones circle of friends will be self cleansing automatically. The ones that usually calls, will still be there as if nothing ever happened. The “has been’s”, the “never-bees” and the future “never will bees”, will be gone. Gone, but they did leave a bunch of empty spaces - all ready to be filled with new ones.
Maybe we all need to loose our phones a little more often.
Ones circle of friends will be self cleansing automatically. The ones that usually calls, will still be there as if nothing ever happened. The “has been’s”, the “never-bees” and the future “never will bees”, will be gone. Gone, but they did leave a bunch of empty spaces - all ready to be filled with new ones.
Maybe we all need to loose our phones a little more often.
.
// T.
// T.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
A Concrete World
Bravery. Or sheer stupidity?
The years of pain in vain. I want to ask the baby palm in my back alley what keeps it going. Wouldn’t it be easier to give in and stop fighting the suffocating stone surroundings? I can’t other than be struck by its hopeless race against the invincible.
I so admire its strength. Every morning it reaches out its longing leafs to catch the sun rays. For a few minutes it gets to rest, reload and revitalize under the sun. Then it’s gone and my neighbor’s three-legged Chihuahua comes to lift one of the remaining over it.
Pinned in its cemented reality with its gray walls of panic attack, constantly reminding of no hope, no future, and no life. Nothing but the rats at night for the loneliness. And the vague sound of roaches' raunchy rapprochement.
Every day I pass it and it reminds me of life.
It’s a concrete world we live in.
Palm tree or not.
// T.
The years of pain in vain. I want to ask the baby palm in my back alley what keeps it going. Wouldn’t it be easier to give in and stop fighting the suffocating stone surroundings? I can’t other than be struck by its hopeless race against the invincible.
I so admire its strength. Every morning it reaches out its longing leafs to catch the sun rays. For a few minutes it gets to rest, reload and revitalize under the sun. Then it’s gone and my neighbor’s three-legged Chihuahua comes to lift one of the remaining over it.
Pinned in its cemented reality with its gray walls of panic attack, constantly reminding of no hope, no future, and no life. Nothing but the rats at night for the loneliness. And the vague sound of roaches' raunchy rapprochement.
Every day I pass it and it reminds me of life.
It’s a concrete world we live in.
Palm tree or not.
// T.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
A Healthy Reminder
Looking forward to 10 days of depression, darkness and ABBA.
***
***
It will be a healthy reminder.
Since I've almost forgot I'm Swedish.
// T.
***
***
***
***
It will be a healthy reminder.
Since I've almost forgot I'm Swedish.
// T.
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