Tony the Swede

Maharajah Cam

2012-01-25T09:09:00.000-08:00

Behind the one and only - Maharajah!

// T.

RYTTAR: SAS eller SOS?

2012-01-22T09:00:00.000-08:00

Två år i rad har jag varit tvungen att inleda mina Paris-veckor runt Prix d’Amerique i en annan mans kalsonger. Orsaken kan tyvärr inte tillskrivas en natt i Paris under toxiskt töcken, utan ett skandinaviskt flygbolag på tre bokstäver.

Hur de lyckats med konststycket att få samma 25 kilo grå Samsonite ramla av en bagagekärra - två år i rad på samma flight – är för mig ett mysterium fullt i klass med Jimmy Hoffas försvinnande och Professorns mustasch.

Precis lika svårt som att få mitt väskbundna liv till Paris, har det varit att få Mr. Samsonite levererad de knappa fem milen från Charles de Gaulle-terminalerna till träningscentret Grosbois, om man är krass, endast sju högersvängar från flygplatsen (om man åker bakvägen…)

Första året tog väskan en tur via Köpenhamn, London, Dublin och Marseille innan den hittade fram till Paris om man ska tro leveranskvittot. Under den resetiden avklarades Prix du Cornulier-dagen och ytterligare två reportage iklädd lånta fjädrar.

Lånta fjädrar i Paris.. allt utom smäck, boots och jeans... foto: Thomas Blomqvist

Repris-året hittade väskan fram till Paris på rekordtid - redan följande morgon!

Men sen. Väskleverantören levde helt enkelt enligt GPS-ens värld, och den slutade existera strax före de vackra hjortarna vid den stora grinden på Grosbois. Vilket resulterade i att han första dagen vände, tog väskan med sig och åkte hem.

Andra dagen gjordes ett nytt försök av en något modigare man. Den kreoltalande väsknavigatören ringde för att få en live-dirigering fram till målet, men hans mobilbatteri dog. Arbetstiden gick ut, och han åkte hem.

Tredje dagen hade jag en telefonväktare som lyckades guida väskan, leverantören och en vit skåpbil in bland stallarna. Efter ytterligare 20 kilometer av irrfärder innanför murarna stod väskan utanför stallborg nr 28. Leverantören pep iväg med den typ av fräsning som endast en fransman kan framkalla.

Nu är väskan åter packad och på Arlanda. Jag är nervös och undrar vad som ska hända. Samma 25 kilo grå Samsonite är incheckad och bortbandad utom synhåll. Men i min dataväska ligger två par extra kallingar.

Vi ses på Söndag!

// T.

PS. Vad ni alla än må tro så föredrar jag ändå egen bomull. Men det är en trygghet att veta att Lindqvist och Niskanen har samma storlek.

Ta nu och titta på det senaste Au Dèpart – Magazine. Prix du Cornulier idag – vi talar självklart mycket monté. Bland annat får ni historien om Västerbo Daylight, svenskan som fick den franska montéeliten att framstå som gotlandsruss.

Au Départ - Magazine 10

2012-01-12T04:24:00.000-08:00

// T.

RYTTAR: Ett gott nytt (?) travår...

2012-01-04T01:50:00.000-08:00

Tänk. I det långa loppet kan travet te sig som en evig Solvalla-lunk. Det rullar på i makligt takt med samma ingredienser som året före. Och året före det. Och en herrans massa år före det.

I januari skrivs det alltid in en ny och imponerande vinnare i Prix d’Amerique och vi svenskar tvättar kolstubben ur ansiktet och tänker ”F-n, nästa år tar vi dem.” I april börjar det plötsligt vimla av olympier i travprogrammen innan de försvinner snabbare än en avlöning och ger plats för Solvalla den sista helgen i maj. Under sommaren tänds någon stjärna i Klass II som senare ebbar ut i Gulddivisionen. Amerikansk travsport får helt plötsligt liv en vecka i augusti, men dör igen måndagen efter loppet som få kan stava till. Sedan är det årgångslopp varje veckan innan novemberrusket är här och vi står där och pratar om hur tunn soppa både banan och loppen är. Varje år blandas detta givetvis upp av en medieskandal där allmänheten får lära känna namn som Jag de Bellouet, Åke Svanstedt och Nils Enqvist. Det kommer att bli likadant i år.

Eller? Tänk om…

Sista söndagen i januari vinner Noras Bean Prix d’Amerique. Fransmännen blir förbannade, stänger loppen, stamboken och utvisar Anders Lindqvist. ATG gör en helomvändning och lanserar Operatravet i april eftersom reklambolaget tycker att svenskarnas samtliga OS-insatser sedan London 1948 innebär dålig publicitet. Inom operan har vi i alla fall framgång, menar reklambolaget och resonerar vidare att klientelet som går på opera är rika och kan spela som f-n. För kontinuitetens skull döps de två följande loppen om till Konung Jussi Björlings-, och Drottning Birgits Pokal.

Solvalla kryddar Elitloppet med att ge Rolf-Göran Bengtsson och Ninja La Silla ett wild card, men ekipaget hoppar in i första sväng. I juli kommer årets nyhet. Björn Goop och Åke Svanstedt slår ihop rörelserna under devisen ”Grönt e skönt!”, vilket får varenda tränare i landet söder om Enköping att söka licens på Hagmyren. I augusti tar familjen Oscarsson storslam i Hambletonian, vilket leder till två saker. Först svämmar Hudson River över efter Susannes glädjegråt, därefter inleds en andra immigrantvåg när resterande tränare som Hagmyren inte kunde husera köper en enkel biljett västerut.

Eftersom betäckningssiffrorna sjunkit beslutar ASVT att hästmaterialet inte längre räcker till, och Kriteriet såväl som Derbyt kommer hädanefter att köras vartannat år. I protest mot detta köper inte Peter ”Foppa” Forsberg inte en ny häst under året. Robert Bergh känner sig hotad, gör en Hans Adielsson och blir i juli månad galopptränare. I oktober vinner han Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe på Longchamps. Med Aleksej.

Travets största skandal blir knarkrubrikerna. Professorn påträffas med kokain i blodet efter en het efterfest hemma hos Mikael Persbrandt, och i en oanmäld razzia hittar polisen en betydande odling glädjetobak i Hans Gs växthus. Det blir inte en enda JACKPOT! under hela året och Remy Nilson avgår i protest. Agneta Fältskog väljer att tala ut om de svåra ABBA-åren i ett extrainsatt VinnareV65.

Allt verkar sedan rätta in sig som vanligt i leden när Ulf Ohlsson tar fem banchampionat. Men året slutar ändå i en högoddsare när Nobelpriset i litteratur tilldelas Lars G Dahlgrens avelskrönikor i Travronden. Han får Drottning Silvia till bordet, som avslöjar att hon alltid spikar Conrad Lugauer, har satt V86:an två gånger, och tycker att Jessica Almenäs vore ett lämpligt parti för lillprinsen.

Nej. Men ändå.

Ett Gott Nytt(???) 2012!

Vi ses på söndag!

// T.

Publicerad: Söndagsbloggen på ATG.SE
Datum: 2012-01-01

Say "Cheese"!

2011-08-09T16:46:00.000-07:00

I can truthfully tell you it's way easier to catch any frisky colt in full action than a certain Toy Poodle named Scooby.

The other day I stumbled over a fuzzy ball of yarn with the nose of a bottle-brush. Off cause I wanted to feature him on the blog, since dogs are the biggest news lately (according to US-media - se last posting "Newsworthy").

Until now I've considered myself a pretty skilled animal photographer with a résumé containing everything from explosive racers, diving dolphins, poisonous widows in black to the very rare Czech swamp rat.

As you see, that meant nothing when it came to catch... Scooby - The Toy Poodle.

******

Since I never got that shot I wanted, here you have him all clear and fixed, snatched from the Internet.

Got you at last, Scooby!

// T.

P.S. Just as evidence...

... here you’ve got the frisky colt Melton Kronos – caught in action. And by the lens of Tony.

Newsworthy

2011-08-07T22:01:00.000-07:00

Abby, the Bichon Frisé… Really?

29 000 children have died of starvation in the last 90 days in the East African famine. Politicians are playing Russian roulette with the American economy, and new violent riots in London are taking place this very evening.

Yet the “push” for tonight’s news at NBC-California was that a coyote killed a dog in Altadena. I’m just surprised that there is nothing more newsworthy happening in the world than the fact that coyotes do hunt.

Now the sad owner now naturally wants the authorities to take action and get rid of the problem so "so that I could feel better about going and getting another dog at some point in the future."

Well, I hope not. I feel there are some other things American authorities need to attend to.

Even though I feel for Abby - the Bichon Frisé.

// T.

Top photo shows Minaj, a 7-month baby with the weight of 7lbs. Minaj is not one of the 29 000 dead children... yet.

Organic Botox

2011-08-03T23:15:00.000-07:00

I must admit I was a bit surprised when reading today’s special at super healthy and organic heaven - Earthbar.

But then again, where if not in West Hollywood should Botox and Restylane be classified as natural health food?

Already in Earthbar and soon to be found in a store near you...

Why not Whole Foods?

// T.

Rocket Fuel

2011-08-02T10:58:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I finally got to taste a dessert my cameraman been bragging about for as long as I've known him; Thomas’ Pitted Prunes Soufflé.

It was fluffy, fantastic and fiercely tasty for sure but it showed to come with a side effect. This morning my noble end turned into a rocket fuel-filled jet engine, and I farted myself all the way up Runyon Canyon - and down.

Runyon Canyon this morning - before the Tony-take off...

People lengthened their stride. Dogs ran amok. Hovering Hummingbirds dropped dead and rattlesnakes went into hibernation - all only as this Scandinavian Space Shuttle pos by.

For all the lives I’ve ruined this morning: I’m truly sorry. Even if that’s not much of a comfort, today I know what it felt like to be the Hindenburg.

Thomas Pitted Prunes Soufflé - deadly delicious and comes without any known side effect.

But a major "back one".

// T.

Beauty

2011-07-29T20:32:00.000-07:00

My laundry basket - empty.

There is not a more beautiful sight in the world. Especially on a Friday night.

Done.

// T.

Photo Quiz

2011-07-28T23:51:00.000-07:00

I didn’t even know I’ve been that young… but it was a day I’ll never forget.

My inbox is full of e-mails reporting that "Tony Ryttar" is the correct answer of the racing magazine Travronden’s weekly photo quiz. Someone obviously found a photo which was the cover of Paris Turf back in December 1993...

Horses are a big passion of my life, and I’ve had the privilege to travel the world in the name of them and telling stories about them from every continent but Africa. This particular one on the photo has a very special place in my heart.

I was her lad for years and she followed me like a dog without any leach. We traveled together between the big racetracks througout Europe, and this photo was taken in Paris during a very successful winter tour. She had just reached the ultimate elite and had a great feature coming. We thought.

She was a fighter and fought so hard in the races that her heart broke. Two races later, in what was to become her last, it almost stopped and she never even reached the wire. She was carrying a hidden infection but gave it all and too much.

After the race she could not breathe and her heroic heart almost beat its way out of her strong body. She stumbled slowly of the track on her knees, and I had to rip the bridle of her head to help her breathe.

That day was the saddest in my life of horses and I still think of this heroine with a sting of pain in my heart.

But the day that photo of the quiz was shot she won easily and made all the elite and a future winner of the Prix d’Amerique to look like mediocre mules.

I was so happy and damn proud over this fantastic horse.

Her name was "Iata Käll".

// T.

Raisinets

2011-07-27T17:15:00.000-07:00

"Natural source of fruit antioxidants" and "30 % less fat (than leading chocolate brands)."

Now that means I just ate a box of Health Food.

Wow!

// T.

Decisions and Dressing

2011-07-26T22:58:00.000-07:00

When on the verge of a nervous breakdown, why are the decisions we have to make never the ones between Balsamic or Vinaigrette?

Not to neglect the importance of salad. But some decisions are harder, and the hardest ones tend to show up when your brain is as fucked up as possible.

I wish hard decisions would have the decency to show up when you at least are able to think with a reasonably normal capacity. The more you think, the harder it gets and that symbolic dressing of life you finally chose may come with consequences you couldn’t think of and can’t handle.

When I’m writing this I realize that I do wish our inner feelings, love and dreams were like salad. It can be cut, tossed or chopped - but never broken. No matter which dressing we choose.

Anyway, I’ve bought a ticket to the future. Right or wrong… I don’t know.

It might just become Blue Cheese of it all.

// T.

About Snoozing

2011-07-26T19:00:00.001-07:00

I used to be a pretty dedicated morning walker on my everlasting crusade against the carbohydrates.

Unfortunately I’ve found another favorite morning cardio: Turning around, hit snooze and go back to sleep.

Not nearly as effective.

// T.

Shitty Slogan

2011-07-25T22:30:00.000-07:00

"Have a dump with Andy Gump?"

Sorry, couldn't help it.

// T.

It was Richard!

2011-07-24T23:28:00.000-07:00

He might have died back in 1883, but he still affects our society, and it’s a serious matter of life and death.

If it hadn’t been for Richard Wagner, a man with a pipe, a cycling woman and especially her poor dog would all be feeling a lot better. 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 called 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.

Richard himself...

The music of Richard Wagner’s was obviously made for marching. Therefore it’s also the natural choice for me in my everlasting crusade against carbs. This morning I was whipped fast forward by him in form of Siegfried’s Funeral March, and probarbly with an 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 - and freaked out. (or more probably he saw a dead Wagnerian hero in big headphones)

Me. Or an almost dead Siegfried.

In order to avoid a full frontal fuck up he threw his Toyota towards a totally innocent woman on a bicycle. The woman only escaped the chain reaction of crashing by another crash - into her dog.

The poor thing yelled, the woman fell and the pipe smoking hunchback almost drove his Toyota into a fire post before he was able to regain control of the rioting vehicle.

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

It would never have happened with Abba.

// T.

Sunday Swimming

2011-07-24T12:09:00.000-07:00

As an opera lover I really appreciate Bellini.

When it comes to swimmingpools I love Bellinis. The effect of freshly squeezed peach and prosecco are pure bel canto, and can make anyone into Dame Joan Sutherland.

2/3 cup freshly squeezed peach
1 bottle chilled Prosecco or Asti Spumante Brut

Now go for it!

// T.

No Comment

2011-07-23T12:30:00.000-07:00

// T.

A Runaway Hero

2011-07-21T22:22:00.000-07:00

Victory Tischler-Blue is to my dear friend Birgitta what Maria Callas is to me.

This heroine is also known as Vicki Blue and once handled the base in the cult band and ABBA-opposite The Runaways. Together with Joan Jett, Lita Ford and Sandy West she covered my friend's rebellious teenage walls, and was a girl power predecessor to such as Madonna, Courtney Love… and The Spice Girls.

When doing a story on baking Blueberry Cobbler for a Swedish Tabloid, I got to know this Cherry Bomb who today is a successful Producer, filmmaker and photographer. She’s also a total lover of horses and I recommend everyone to take a look at her shots...

Back then...

So.

Now I expect my dear friend Birgitta to go find Maria Callas, snap a shot together and have her send me a Facebook friend request.

Good Luck !

// T.

Pain

2011-07-20T14:31:00.000-07:00

This old photo might express a feeling of freedom and excitement, but today I wore the same pose – out of pure armpit pain.

The reason was deodorant. Or rather that it wasn’t the deodorant.

I have a back problem, and a very nice soul once gave me a hot, hot roll-on liniment to gently just touch up my skin with. Only a furtive kiss from it and my back was as sunk in a burning bath of Tabasco.

Well...

You know where this is going... right?

A too hurried morning, a too hasted arm movement, and a too hurricane-fast run down the stairs later I found myself walking Sunset Boulevard in that exact same pose of above. But the excitement and freedom feeling from a day in Orvieto five years ago had changed into a fearsome feeling of hot and holy hell.

Lesson to be taught: It doesn’t matter what you do, it will get you anyway.

Since a certain and awful incident (where I by accident gave myself an "Anal Awakening" by adding a teaspoon of Cayenne instead of Cinnamon to my oatmeal) I’ve been terribly cautious. From now on I’ll give a damn.

... ouch!

Or stop using deodorant.

// T.

Thinking

2011-07-19T18:50:00.000-07:00

Just one of those days.

My oatmeal still taste of blueberries and cinnamon in the morning, but the highlight of the day right now is the elevator ride up to the office. Five seconds of air conditioning, inaccessibility and silence.

Kind of a sterile five-second sanctuary.

// T.

Horseradish

2011-07-18T13:55:00.000-07:00

There is a hint of burnt gunpowder and battlefield over the bathroom.

I don't know if it's of any comfort, but it was truly delicious.

Unfortunately, yesterday’s Armoracia Rusticana meant consequences for my entire office - today.

Truly delicious.

// T.

Some Lovin'

2011-07-16T17:37:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to send some love out there to all of you who need a little extra.

And a horse in Bo Derek hair.

// T.

Emasculated Espresso

2011-07-15T22:31:00.000-07:00

It’s like castrating a call boy and say “Fuck!”

The blood pumping through my veins is truly dark roasted. The reason, effect and lifegiving loveliness of coffee stops to exist the very second it's caffeine is cut off.

As black as the ass of a chimney sweep, and blessed with the power of runaway freight train. The perfect morning mix will make you give birth to twins before lunch. When you can walk right out on the street and touch up the asphalt with it, or when the spoon stays standing on the top of its tip in the middle of the cup...

... first then it is ready, and that's how I want it.

"Some coffee, darling?"

The process of commercial decaffeination was invented by the Germans back in 1903. We should have known what was to come...

If a certain as well as mustachioed Austrian could have had himself a few decent cups of homebrewed happiness now and then, he probarbly wouldn’t have turned to amphetamine and would have slept nicely instead of staying awake, getting cranky and making plans.

There here’s nothing like a triple espresso before bed.

To decaffeinate is to castrate.

Period.

// T.

Pencil Airways

2011-07-14T20:41:00.000-07:00

It was quite a dramatic day at work, and I was the reason.

First I almost killed Sir Winston Churchill by accident when having him stumbling around on a slippery white marble floor in Marrakech.

Then I tricked Yves Saint-Laurent into planting some Periwinkle from Madagascar in the garden of his exquisitely designed Moroccan Riad.

Alfred Hitchcock at the other hand, he got to taste the tragic destiny of one of his many blonde heroines; abducted behind windblowing textiles at the colorful, magic and mythic square, Jemma-el Fnaa.

Just for the fun of it I added a grain of sand.

A grain of sand that throughout a century gently been carried by the winds over Sahara all the way from Timbuktu, Only to end up in the basket of a cuddly cobra, tired of dancing to the music conjured by a blind and blue-clad snake charmer.

About a thousand French billionaires, some roasted quail, an early bird peacock and a hint of mint later, the story was told, written down and done.

The day finally ended high among The Atlas Mountains in Morocco. There I got stuck and needed to reroute tomorrows desert adventures in Oman for some tee-time at the pleasant, warm and always welcoming island of Mauritius.

Som writing work sure are more free of spirit and full of fantasy than others.

Luckily Pencil Airways flies pretty much everywhere.

And Beyond!

// T.

"Squat, Sit and Shit"

2011-07-13T18:20:00.000-07:00

Was suffering some creative anxiety at work, and came across this piece from a time when i obviously didn't.

And it actially gave me a very welcome smile.

The Bidetto
Sunday, November 22, 2009

The only thing more Italian than "La Dolce Vita" is an old French invention made in porcelain.

The bidet is not only frequent in finer facilities. It’s represented in every bathroom. Even the worn down warehouse WC, which I happened to visit the other night, offered the possibility to fulfill my dump by a refreshingly cold shower where the sun never shines.

The Bidet has become the national symbol of Italy and has consigned pasta, opera and the Oedipus Complex further down on the podium.

For those of you who have never encountered this phenomenon, I can tell you that a bidet is a low-mounted plumbing fixture or type of sink intended for washing the genitalia, inner buttocks, and anus.

Originally a French word, in English bidet is pronounced UK-ish “bɪˈdei” or US-ish “biːdeɪ”. Bidet is a French word for pony (in Old French, "bider "meant to trot). This etymology comes from the fact that one rides a bidet much like one does a pony.

But why is there this Italian passion for it?

I’m usually too fast to conclusions, but here I’ve got no other clue than the fact that I saw some plums at breakfast. Or maybe today's love of the bidet comes with the Italian generation who grew up using the old form of Italian WCs, the traditional “squat-, sit- and shit- hole”.

It’s not always that a good balance comes together with being an anal sniper. Much more than one pasta person must have tripped over, and banned the lack of a power shower.

If you have a better idea or some knowledge, please enlighten me.

But if you come to Italy, just remember one thing…

… first shit, then straddle.

// T.

Lacrime

2011-07-10T22:13:00.000-07:00

Tears are the eye’s windscreen wipers.

Sometimes you need to cry away what dim your vision.

Lascia ch'io Pianga

Let me cry.

// T.

Law and Order

2011-07-09T01:15:00.000-07:00

There was a good discount if you killed a slave, and totally okay to be gay.

The oldest known literature written in Swedish is the Westrogothic Law, a provincial law from the early 13th century. At a closer look it gives a few interesting twists and turns upon how people were seen upon, and how our norms and values change - faster than we think.

Being gay in the year of 1225 was totally ok. No laws what so ever against homosexual deeds. That the phenomenon was known is crystal clear if you read the laws concerning criminal defamation. It was seen as slander if a man accused a man for being taken by a man. It was obviously shameful to be the bottom, but being a top was totally ok(g)ay.

Äldre Västgötalagen...

It was way worse with crime involving property. The punishment for simple theft was most often death, and the laws of heritance were the most extensive ones. That might also explain the hard punishment for the man who pleased someone else’s wife.

The law reveals it was a brutal class society back then as well. Heavy fines if you slew a local man, but decent discounts if you instead slew a man from another province - or a German. The lowest fee and a total bargain was if you slew another man’s slave. (thrall)

(for those of you who didn’t follow above = damn expensive to kill a Californian, cheaper to kill a man from Arizona or Mexico, but only a dollar if you killed your neighbor’s gardener)

It’s spread by the Church, not historians, that it was the christening that made Vikings abolish slavery. Since this law was written centuries after God made his entrance in Scandinavia, we can see it as bullshit.

But with God and church came a lot of new norms and values.

Unfortunately for us being gay.

// T.

Omen

2011-07-08T13:44:00.000-07:00

I should never have written about The Golden Gate and its dark backdoor.

Remember my utterly destructive bathroom guest?

A while ago I wrote about the suicidal spider in my bathtub. After that posting she stopped making her daily excursions down the enamel, and I thought she came to better conclusions.

Yesterday, after returning from a work trip to San Francisco and Saint Helena, I found the eitght-legged little self-murderess all dry and definately dead.

Not in the bathtub, but on the floor in my shower.

It was an omen.

// T.

Gateway to Heaven

2011-07-06T19:24:00.000-07:00

Simon & Garfunkel were right.

There is a bridge over troubled waters, and its name is The Golden Gate. Today I crossed the classic landmark which also happen to be the world’s most popular place to commit suicide. An official count is kept, exceeding 1400 suicides averaging one every two weeks. (in comparison, the second-most-popular place, Aokigahara Forest in Japan, averages 30 a year)

People have been known to travel to San Francisco specifically to jump off the bridge. The deck is 245 feet/75 m above the water, and after a fall of four seconds jumpers hit the water at 76 miles per hour/122 km/h. Most die from impact trauma when hitting the surface, and the few who survive the initial impact generally drown or die of hypothermia in the cold water. (as cold as 47 °F/8 °C)

The fatality rate is 98% and only 26 persons are known to have survived. One young woman survived, but returned to jump - and died. Once a man survived, swam to shore, and drove himself to a hospital. This March a 17 year-old survived a jump, afterwards saying his attempt was for "fun" and not suicide.

To reduce the number of suicides The Golden Gate is equipped with Suicide Hotline Telephones. Staff are patrolling and looking for people who appear to be planning to jump, and Iron workers on the bridge are trained to talk or wrestle down suicidal people. (The bridge is closed to pedestrians at night, and cyclists must be buzzed in and out through remotely controlled security gates)

A suicide barrier can’t be set up due to safety reasons, since the load from a barrier would affect the bridge's structural integrity during a strong windstorm.

It’s a Golden Gate. With a dark backdoor.

Don’t Jump.

// T.

… But no.

2011-07-05T22:58:00.000-07:00

It doesn’t always end up as planned.

For example; here I was going to write a fun and inspired posting about chasing around the sites with my cameraman trying to catch the absolute essence of the city where Tony Bennett left his heart.

I was also going to write about Kronos; four fantastic musicians in a string quartet, of whose many major musical achievements for example one is to have bowed barbed wire at the Sydney Opera House.

The Kronos Quartet - Music from 4 Fences
Photo: Jay Blakesberg

I was also planning to deliver the quote of the day, said from one member of the quartet to another; "I think your G-sting may be too sharp."

But I won't. Instead I will just go to bed with a good book.

Six big pillows and a fantastic mattresses. Who can say no?

Not I.

// T.

Distractions

2011-07-01T17:59:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to work real hard all day.

But a friend in immediate possession of raspberries, Tequila, ice and a blender made it impossible. Really.

Slurp.

// T.

Q & A

2011-06-30T13:58:00.000-07:00

- So, is July 4th a big thing in Sweden?

Today I was asked that question at lunch concerning the upcoming weekend.

Yes. It's huge.

It's a big thing all over the world. Just as big as the Bastille Day and about 180 other of the National Days are in "... the land of the free, and home of the... "

... right. ;-)

// T.

The Crown Jewels

2011-06-28T22:55:00.000-07:00

Her name is Carina Dahl and I kind of want to be her.

She lives on a boat, owns horses and is into fishing. I’m really not sure about her relations towards cats, but I know she has two dogs, of which the first is a notorious kleptomaniac and the other is a chemically castrated sex offender. Ok, it’s not her above, but could be and she actually is represented by this photo at a social network which starts with a face and ends with a book.

She is a writer and handles words just as skilled as a pickpocket in Casablanca snatches a wallet. I envy her talent to create an interesting story out of anything, and her way to make the most incredible creatures credible.

A few years ago she wrote a fantastic novel filled with a love of storytelling, a novel which made me smile, laugh and cry from cover to cover.

That novel premieres today at Swedish movie theatres as a big budget summer blockbuster with a stellar cast. You all should go and watch Alicia Wikander, Björn Gustafsson, Bill Skarsgård and the others in Kronjuvelerna – "The Crown Jewels". According to raving reviews it’s already a success and can very well be the next Swedish Academy Awards nominee.

Congratulations and good work, Carina.

“Never forget to wear a hat when the moon is full. Otherwise you will go bald.”

// T.

Now:

Book tickets at: www.sf.se
Read her novels: Familjelyckan, Det Stora Svenska Vemodet
Read her blog at: www.carindadahl.com

Justin Who?

2011-06-27T17:49:00.000-07:00

That’s when you know that you really turned 40.

When the Office Intern honestly, concerning and very tutoring starts to explain to you who Justin Timberlake is, after you made a quick joke when talking about the Cameron Diaz movie Bad Teacher.

- Tony: … Justin who?
- Office Intern: He was in a group - ‘N Sync, and then had a solo career and started to act some. Tall guy…

Well, Office Intern, I knew who Justin Timberlake is way before you even were a little nasty thought behind your father's ear.

But what happened to JC, Lance, Chris and Joey?

// T.

But(t)...

2011-06-26T10:33:00.000-07:00

I've never really liked Tom Cruise.

But(t) this view from Valkyrie made me reconsider.

But(t) then again I've always been a big fan of the painter Anders Zorn.

What can I say but(t)...

... buttocks!

// T.

Midsummer, Maud and Madonna

2011-06-24T22:10:00.000-07:00

Since it's late Midsummer Eve back home and every Swede is drunk, full of pickled herring and about to dance The Frog Dance, I don't think anyone care that I'm about a week late.

I actually didn't even know until a visitig friend told me that one of our most beloved and hated politicians at home has resigned from her post. Her name is Maud Olofsson and she's very similar to a woman named Madonna.

At first sight they might seem a bit different but at a closer look...

The two most frequently featured women in Swedish Media have more in common than it might look like. They could actually be best friends.

They are the same age. Our Deputy Prime Minister Maud Olofsson may have a more maternal image than First Pop Icon Madonna, but they are both the mother of three.

Keeping a healthy lifestyle is a priority for both, though one of them leans more towards yoga while the other often is seen on her bicycle. They both like fashion and to be well dressed, even if they go for different designers but one dresses less.

The careers took off about the same time, and both have reached as high as it gets within their guilds. Our girls are always surrounded by many men and can share stories, since both Berlusconi and Beatty been bossing around quite a bit.

I bet none one would ever notice if M&M swopped lives for a while.

But both the Swedish Government as well as the Sticky&Sweet Tour would be much more interesting.

// T.

Death by Tray

2011-06-23T21:49:00.001-07:00

I just had Penne all'Arrabbiata for supper and came to think of this.

Enjoy!

// T.

Twins?

2011-06-22T22:59:00.000-07:00

I’m not quite myself before I get properly caffeinated in the morning.

Pile of laundry.

When tumbled out of bed and into my shorts I saw Smulan, the dog I'm currently sitting for for some, still sleeping on my bedroom carpet. More dead than alive I addressed her with that typical "girly-cute" voice one tends to talk to newborn babies with;

- Wake up, cutie cutie… lets go out. Come, come… sleepy head.

No reaction what so ever. I yawned.

- Come on, Smulan lets go…

Still no reaction.

Then I heard something behind me. The dog. She was entering through the bedrom door with a newly wake expression over her face, drowsily draging her paws behind her...

... and wondering why on earth I was trying to talk a pile of laundry into go out and do morning toilet ???

Smulan the dog.

Bark!

// T.

Suicidal Spider

2011-06-21T18:26:00.000-07:00

I’m caught in the web of a sad game; she wants to die, I save her.

There is a big drama going on in my bathroom. Every day I find my suicidal roomie in the bathtub trying to climb the way too slippery, enamelled walls into safety. I see her fight, get tired and sadly give up.

Here comes the problem. My arachnophobia is so severe and so bad that I even have problems with two hairy legs spreading. I rather face a Great White then a Small Black any time.

But I can’t just watch her die, I have to save her.

Dead scared I take the toilet roll and roll down about two feet of paper towards her in order to rescue her in a maneuver copying the helicopters evacuating sailors from boats in hurricanes. She climbs up on the paper and I quickly let her down on the floor to rush away.

I thought I would only have to do it once, and that the spider would learn from its mistake and stay away from the tub. How wrong I was. Four days in a row I’ve found her there when I got home from work, followed by four as dramatic as life-threatening “toilet-roll-helicopter-maneuvers”. Only for her to stupidly dive in there again the next day.

Now I’m going to let her stay there two days to teach her a lesson. Mostly because if she finds out she can’t get any food there, she might not do it again.

But also because I’m out of toilet paper.

// T.

Forty Sucks...

2011-06-16T22:15:00.000-07:00

One week has passed and can someone please press ‘rewind’?

Everyone who tells you that “Being 40 is great, and really the best age” ought to have their pants pulled down and be spanked. I want nothing but to skip it and jump directly to 50.

Day 1...

I woke up at a parking lot outside Nürnberg, Germany. The rest of my big b-day I spent by getting a speeding ticket on Autobahn, McDonalds meals, getting stuck in a traffic jam and missing the ferry to Sweden.

Day 2...

Not that bad. A 05:25 am wake up call, then only an asthma attack.

Day 3...

Forgot my wallet when leaving for Paris to watch my horse race. Got to Paris and realized when trying to rent a car that I also had forgot passport, ID and driver’s license. (How I got through airport security is still a mystery) No refund on the booked car. The sad subway sight of me and my borrowed pink weekend-bag wasn’t very welcomed by the suburban gangs of Paris.

As an extra spice in the rain, the last leg bus driver didn’t bother to stop at my stop. When I finally got there my horse was injured and had been scratched from the race.

Day 4...

Finished a whole asthma-medicine inhaler. Snored, sneezed and blew my nose into an open flesh-wound caused by an unhealthy consuming of Kleenex . Then a horse named Tiffy crushed my right big toe.

Day 5...

Asthma went on, but no medicine. A colleague called me fat, and all of a sudden I started to worry about how to get through three security checks at the Airport next day without documents…

Day 6...

Couldn’t check in to my return flight due to no passport or ID. The Swedish Consulate was closed, so no temporary passport available. Was just about to fly a friend to France with returning flights (needed to be back to catch my US flight in time) with my stuff when I found it all… in my bag. So I finally got on the flight to Copenhagen and then had a 9hrs drive to park the car at my sister’s while my absence.

Day 7...

Train to Stockholm with too many heavy bags and five bottles of a homemade Balkan booze called Slivovitz. I was charged the double price of a ticket since I followed my dear mother’s advice that it’s “cheaper” to by it on board. When in Stockholm I couldn’t get a cab due to rain, so I, bags and booze took the overly crowded subway – for two stations. Then there was a fire in the tunnel and traffic shut down.

Today week two of being forty has just started. I’m currently on the flight to Los Angeles and believe it or not; it hasn’t crashed...

... yet.

// T.

Paris Hilton

2011-05-19T10:20:00.000-07:00

My date for this year's Elitloppet is finally set.

I hope she will make it in time this time.

// T.

Good Advice.

2011-05-17T01:36:00.000-07:00

The day you run out of toilet paper your ass will thank you.

Always use the soft napkins from Domino's rather than the crisp ones from Starbucks.

If the butt itself may determinate.

// T.

One Word

2011-05-15T13:43:00.000-07:00

The only word I know in Spanish is the word for seagull - 'gaviota.'

The matters of conversations with my Mecixan sister-in-law and when ordering quesadillas at Poquito Más become somewhat short, strange and narrow.

- Tony: Gaviota.
- Sister-in-law: ... Que?

- Tony: Gaviota.
- Poquito Mas: No! It's Chicken !!!

Not really.

I'm just out of ideas, found my old shots of a Sydney seagull and needed a reason to post them.

But it is almost true. The only other word I know in Spanish is 'tejon.'

It means 'badger'.

// T.

Best Bedmate

2011-05-14T23:59:00.000-07:00

Nowadays I've learned to appreciate knowledge before orgasms.

For some months I’ve been hooking up with the best of bedmates – Wikipedia.

The very last thing I do before entering the kingdom of dreams is taking a firm grip of my iPhone only to let their "Today's Featured Article" playfully caress me and my senses. Satisfaction without snoring, cover snatching or unwanted friskiness.

This ultimate application works as a lubricant for the curious: everything goes in. It fills me up with hot stuff I never knew I was interested in, for example the old Plank Roads of New Jersey, deceased Australian cricketers and since 55 years shipwrecked Brazilian battleships.

If it wasn’t for Wikipedia’s nightly pornography I would never know that this little blue bird called Splendid Fairywren is socially monogamous and sexually promiscuous, and that male wrens pluck pink or purple petals and display them to females as part of a courtship.

I would never have known that Honoré de Balzac’s novel La Cousine Bette was first published as a serial in a newspaper, or that 40 percent of Belarus is forested. At certain occasions I go for a second session by clicking one of the links. Then it’s only me in an educational ecstasy together with the Russian composer Rimsky-Korsakov , Mary Suart, or even better - Bloody Mary herself.

Right now there is some fancy story between my sheets just waiting to be read. So sorry, got to go...

... Wikipedia darling, I'm coming!

// T.

As Times Goes By

2011-05-13T10:23:00.000-07:00

Me, my brother, my dog, my grandfather and his legendary Ford Cortina-64.

According to the age of my brother and color of my hair, the year must be about 1992. I would never have posted this photo, but it’s the only one I have of my grandfather. My grandparents are divorced since the 196o-ties and neither of them ever remarried.

My grandfather lived only an hour away, and he came driving his Ford Cortina down to our house every Christmas. When I was about 10 years old he took me in that same Cortina to stay with him for a week at his farm up in the northern woods of Älvdalen, just me and him.

Daytime we dried grass on a hay-rack for the cows to eat the upcoming winter. Nighttime we walked a small path through the deep woods and swam in a natural pond. One of the days I remember we watched the Wimbledon final and witnessed John McEnroe defeat Björn Borg. That summer in the early 1980-ies is about as close as we got.

With time I flew out from home. The winters got colder. Grandfather rather stayed at his house to keep the fire burning in his since long out of date heater, than drive his Cortina down for our Christmas dinners.

Last week my mother called and told me that my grandfather passed away in his sleep at the age of 91. I can’t say I really knew him well, and there are so many things I never asked and therefore never will know about my family. It does get too late to take that step you always felt you should have done already a long time ago.

But I do know one thing about my grandfather. As you read this he’s playing harmonica for the angels even though he never really could and it always sounded terrible. Or he’s taking care of some broken table that needed to be fixed.

Today his ashes were scattered for the winds in a memorial cemetery back in Sweden.

I was not there.

Stig Ryttar 1920-2011

// T.

Wedding Outfit

2011-05-11T18:27:00.000-07:00

Things don't always end up as planned.

Only therefore I attended the screening of upcoming Bridesmaids wearing olive green Capris.

I hope it was due to the movie, Kristin Wiig and Wilson Phillips that the Hollywood crowd seemed to have great fun and laugh their asses off.

Not due to my accidental outfit.

// T.

A New Hope

2011-05-10T21:16:00.000-07:00

Well, I’ll be damned.

There it was again: my backyard palm tree. A few months ago the struggle and death of this little life was kind of a serious serial here on the blog. Check postings “A Concrete World“ and “A Sad End “.

It’s obviously not only Jesus who rises from the dead at Easter. Even though I doubt that my baby palm tree in 2000 years from now will be the symbol of a whole religion, I still think it’s a sign: there is hope.

No matter how cemented in concrete and/or brutally cut off by your heels, you should never give up. It’s just like love.

I guess there is something we can all learn from my backyard baby palm tree:

- Find a fucking better spot to put your roots next time, Stupid!

Welcome Back!

// T.

Hydrated

2011-05-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

According to my fridge I eat nothing but Greek Yogurt and Marinara.

But drink the more.

Cheers!

// T.

Been Busy

2011-04-27T21:48:00.000-07:00

I've been terribly busy lately - hence the three day silence.

First terribly busy walking the beaches of Laguna, saluting the migrating gray whales passing buy.

Then terribly busy playing mermaid in the hot tub.

Among other things, off cause!

// T.

Dawn of the Dead

2011-04-24T01:10:00.000-07:00

It is written in history.

No day is better suited for a Zombie Movie Marathon than Easter Sunday.

"... and on the third day he rose from the dead... "

// T.

Mindlifts

2011-04-23T02:59:00.000-07:00

I wish there were "Mindlifts".

Some nip and tuck among the wicked wrinkles of the soul.

The inner version of plastic surgery should come as fast and easy as the outer one. Take the car, show them the money, confront the knife, sunglasses, and then greet the world - smiling as a brand new being. Just as in this version, there should also be a Dr. Rembrandt of the souls in every street corner.

I would gladly be his first patient. Pay the bill, and have the furrowed face I face inside every morning stretched out by some mental-boosting Botox. Rise, leave the clinic only within hours, head held high. High, and safely propped on the fresh chemical creases of a mind beautified.

Ten years of antidepressants vs. some nerve poison. Ten years of therapy vs. a scalpel. Face it.

Plastic are way ahead of psychic...

// T.

Pink Thursday

2011-04-21T11:17:00.000-07:00

Where I come from Thursday before Easter is called “Pink Thursday”.

None would have been happier than me, Angelyne and Dame Barbara Cartland if that was a dress code – but it’s not.

According to our pagan beliefs in the homeland of expensive alcohol, cheap furniture and average pop, this Thursday was the day when witches straddled their broom sticks to fly off and party with the Devil in Blockula. But that's got nothing to do with the "Pink Thursday" of today.

The world “pink”, or “skär” as it is in Swedish, meant “to clean” in the elderly form of our language. And the name “Pink Thursday” stands for “Cleaning Thursday”. Not to make the house proper for the big weekend, but to clean feet.

Yes.

The son of a carpenter’s we know as Jesus obviously cleaned the feet of his entourage before the last supper. I’m glad we only took the name and not embraced the tradition of cleaning everyone’s plates of meat before sitting down at the table.

Anyway.

I do think that “Pink Thursday” would be much more fun if it actually was a dress code.

Not Dame Barbara. Not Angelyne. Just me.

More pink to the people.

// T.

P.S. Witches still tend to be partying like hell this weekend though, only a different kind of witches in a different kind of venue. But all still "pink" and not necessarily pretty in it.

The Forgotten Fish

2011-04-20T17:32:00.000-07:00

Miles, miles and yet miles of columns have been written about how wonderful it can be to dance 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 the art of writing seriously - about nothing.

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

Nine times.

// T.

An Explanation

2011-04-19T15:24:00.000-07:00

I’ve not gone crazy. Yet.

The “out of nowhere” Swedish posting below was not a result of sudden sunstroke. (My fried feet have got nothing to do with it, I promise.) It was just an old posting to show the local newspaper of my hometown that I do know how to write in my native language, since they might consider this as some kind of “Blog of 2011”.

I would translate it if I had the time, but I don’t. And it was as always about nothing but nonsense. Such as a scary homecoming, pot-growing Basil, the luxury of a Taco-stand at the grocery store, cold cross-country ski waxes, blowtorches and the blasphemy of preferring Boy George to Mora-Nisse.

Well, maybe one day I’ll find the time.

Maybe.

// T.

Krukbasilika och Kallvalla

2011-04-19T12:16:00.000-07:00

Jag är mas - men säg det inte till någon!

Imorgon återvänder jag till barndomens Mora. Min lillasyster tar studenten.

För er som inte känner stället kan jag säga att där måste man kunna valla ett par längdskidor vid fem års ålder OCH klara hela Vasaloppsspåret vid det dubbla annars är man ingen äkting.

Enligt altartavlan i helighuset skall man inga andra gudar hava jämte Mora-Nisse och Assar Rönnlund. Jag gillade Culture Club och hade dålig kondis. Fatta att jag jagades med den blåslampa som normalt användes vid laggpåstrykningen. (Lite hann jag snappa upp om blått, rött, silver och klister...) Genom att urkundsförfalska min mors namnteckning på en gymnasieansökan kunde jag som femtonåring fly.

Imorgon skall jag möta mitt förgågna. Sedan 1988, när jag pep ifrån mitt Alcatraz, har 23 Vasalopp gått imål och Mora utvecklats med stolthet. Dom har till exempel fått en Tacohylla på ICA. Krukbasilikan lär härja som värst på var mans diskbänk, och framtiden - mörk choklad med hög kakaoprocent - lär vara på väg nordväst längs Riksväg 70.

Men jag tänker spänna mina biceps. Rak i ryggan skall jag göra Kyrkogatan till min egen scen. Bära jeans så tighta att de får killar att avundas min runda rumpa. Jag skall le självsäkert.

-Är inte det där Tony Ryttar? skall folk fråga.

INGEN skall kunna se att bakom mina Hollywood-inköpta solglasögon är jag rädd.

Rädd så in i helvete.

// T.

Happy Feet

2011-04-18T18:35:00.000-07:00

Tanned feet should be a human right.

Okey, a bit pinky-reddish right now, but in two days they will have a nice tint of golden olive. It's of my strongest belief that people with tanned feet are incapable of feeling unhappy, miserable and depressed. If someone came up with the idea to mass produce feet-solarium, he wouldn't only end up filthy rich. He would extinct therapists.

Tanned feet make the world into a better place.

Okey, less ugly at least.

// T.

Wonderful Waters

2011-04-16T06:48:00.000-07:00

"A swimming pool, swimming bath, wading pool, or simply a pool, is an artificially enclosed body of water intended for swimming or water-based recreation."

That is Wikipedia's definition of the word "swimming pool". And it continues:

"There are many standard sizes; the largest and deepest is the Olympic size. A pool can be built either above or in the ground, and from materials such as metal, plastic, fiberglass or concrete. Pools that may be used by many people or by the general public are called public, while pools used exclusively by a few people or in a home are called private. Many health clubs, fitness centers and private clubs have public pools used mostly for exercise. Many hotels and massage parlors have public pools for relaxation. Hot tubs and spas are pools with hot water, used for relaxation or therapy, and are common in homes, hotels, clubs and massage parlors. Swimming pools are also used for diving, other sports, and training of lifeguards and astronauts."

Today's mission...

It's Saturday. It's April. The sun is shining. I'm Swedish and it's almost 30 degrees centigrade.

Got to go.

// T.

Red Delicious

2011-04-15T19:31:00.000-07:00

Have a close look.

According to the price for this cluster tomatoes are the new gold.

USD: 11.13
SEK: 68.80
EUR: 7,71
GBP: 6,81
CAD: 10,67

Tomato-farmer. That's the future.

Invest now.!

// T.

Hollywood Hound

2011-04-14T18:41:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure.

But i think it was a dog.

// T.

The Truth

2011-04-13T23:45:00.000-07:00

Ancient Chinese wisdom are widely known.

But still...

... how did they know?

// T.

Ghostly Laundry

2011-04-13T09:00:00.000-07:00

I never knew a bunch of cotton could be so fearsome.

When something sudden and scary happens I kind of cramp and jump at the same time. Numerous are the buckets of popcorn I’ve sent away in full speed high above a full movie theater. If not throwing popcorn I usually smack the back head in front of me with my knee instead and send a chain reaction down the rows and aisles.

The poor and innocent Swedish city Örnsköldsvik is still suffering the damage of mine and Jurassic Park 3’s totally coincidental same-time visit. Ask my co-worker Linda of Lindesberg, who had the seat beside me. Or rather don’t. She hasn’t quite been the same since, and apparently still wakes up crying at nights due to the incident.

Anyway.

When I came home from work tonight I cramped, jumped, screamed and scared the shit out of my neighbors and half of Santa Monica Boulevard. If’ there had any popcorn in my hand it would by now be halfway to Hawaii.

Dangerous cotton...

When I do laundry I hang my t-shirts in a lamp which clearly was designed to work extra as a drying stand. During the day I clearly forgot what in the dusk was awaiting my return . It took a full scream, three spasms and half a shock before I realized that the ghastly ghost-gathering was nothing by my own cotton.

For my defense I need to say that my skin is still in pain after seeing Insidious and constantly producing goose bumps and chills for two hours.

"It's not the house that's haunted. It's your son."

But just to be sure…

… beware of laundry.

// T.

Chicken Love

2011-04-12T17:41:00.000-07:00

I've only got one criteria when it comes to love.

I’ve long passed the stage where my ever-waiting and ever-wanted significant other needs to possess certain looks, skills or magic. It’s all just down to one last humble demand – The Chicken.

I don’t care if the eyes are deep as dwells to drown in. I don’t care if the skin is so soft that I sense it against mine still a hundred showers away. And I don’t care if making love is heaven, or if it’s heaven to be in love. But chicken-wise…

When coming home with a grilled chicken, my future fellow in love and crime must take action. I will never ever give in to being the one preparing the prey. When the bird then is skin and boneless, it shall be divided upon two plates: the two chicken breasts on mine – and the rest on my love’s.

It’s a love and respect which must come natural, without a single question, otherwise we will never work. And don’t play me the guilt thing. Pass it over anything but our chicken divided. It will kill our love.

Just so you are chicken-clear on it when you apply.

Or am I the chicken?

// T.

Confession

2011-04-11T15:24:00.000-07:00

Every night when I went to bed as a kid, I believed that the fairy godmother would come, grant my wishes, and when I woke up it would all be different.

Religion is not about God. Religion is about believing, and people's needs to believe in something to make life livable. That was my religion.

Belief is the reason not to give up, and to go on when life gets tough. Some believe in the big win, others believe in Madonna, Some see heroes in heaven, others see heaven in heroin. Life is not eternal and we will all end up as topsoil. I understand that's kind of scary for some, and I respect their need to believe in a life after this in order not to drop dead on the spot.

God, Allah or Buddha are just separate items of the same beliefs and fears. People have been, are and will still be sent to the life after this over the pretty stupid question whether Jesus was the son of God, or the son of a carpenter. And become soil.

Just let everyone believe in what they want and don't blame something called God.

Every night when I went to bed as a kid, I believed that the fairy godmother would come, grant my wishes, and when I woke up it would be all different.

And God I still do.

// T.

A Walk of Fame

2011-04-10T22:28:00.000-07:00

This morning I took the walk of fame instead of shame.

Pure fat loss vanity drove me from West Hollywood to Westwood - by foot. As I passed through Beverly Hills, blood had brought enough oxygen to my newly caffeinated brain and I started to imagine things about the celebrated lives behind the surrounding walls and hedges. And I came to the conclusion it must be just as ordinary as ours. Even Charlie Sheen's.

I bet that up in Montecito a morning grumpy Ellen DeGeners is sending a Portia de Rossi in curlers down the road to see if Oprah has some espresso beans to spare. Along the way she will stop and gossip for a minute with a car washing Rob Lowe about the busty blonde she spotted in Jeff Bridges' backyard.

At Beverly Park, Denzel Washington is preparing for his annual garage sale, hoping that greedy Scotsman Rod Stewart actually will buy the Beach Boys-CD he has been fingering for the last three years. But next neighboring Faith Hill and Tim McGraw are pissed and won't go, since Denzel didn't show up at their "Country Karaoke Night" last week. Even Rocky Rambo himself came around, and he left the estate years ago.

A minute ago Jack Nicholson nibbled on some treats he bought for last year's Halloween, but never gave away, since the only visiting witch ran away in panic just when he was about to give it. He will never know it was because Baby Suri's dad Tom had told her never to accept candy from strangers. Especially from dirty old men.

From somewhere I can hear a lawnmower. It's Harrison Ford who finally gets the grass done, since Calista has been giving him shit all night about not doing it yesterday as he said he would. Raquel Welch is scrambling eggs, and Paris decided not to let Perez check her mail while she's out of town.

As I said, a life in the Beverly Hills is a life very ordinary.

Just like yours and mine.

// T.

Threesome

2011-04-08T10:59:00.000-07:00

Can't wait until tonight's amazing 3-some.

Me, Ben & Jerry

Smooth, sweet and a happy ending every time. After all it's Friday and I did a hell of a job this week.

Bring it on, guys!

// T.

The Silence

2011-04-07T10:33:00.000-07:00

The blog- and Facebook silence lately is not a sudden stuck of common sense.

It's only due to a classic overload.

Work.

Don't worry. Just as the Californian ex-governor...

... I'll be back.

// T.

Black, Noir, Svart

2011-04-05T22:01:00.000-07:00

According to Google:

"Black is the color of objects that do not emit or reflect light in any part of the visible spectrum; they absorb all such frequencies of light. Although black is sometimes described as an "achromatic" or hueless color, in practice it can be considered a color, as in expressions like "black cat" or "black paint"."

Or "black day".

// T.

A Gift From Heaven

2011-04-04T18:12:00.000-07:00

The insignificant brown envelope I found in my mailbox surprisingly contained a 12-hour orgy.

Five live-bootlegs from the 1960-ties featuring the voice which no studio microphone ever could catch - La Nilsson. (1918-2005). It was an order I did such a long time ago that I forgot during the time of deliverence.

With her dying to the fullest as Salome in my ears right now with the longest, highest and most beautiful vibrato-free lines ever sung, I can't other but publish a list of the recordings that saved me in this time of creative drought.

1. Salome - Metropolitan '65
Cond: Karl Böhm
(Liebl, Dalis, Cassel, Shirley)

2. Un Ballo in Maschera - Metropolitan '63
Cond: Nello Santi
(Tucker, Merril, Madeira)

3. Macbeth - Metropolitan '64
Cond: Nello Santi
(MacNeil, Bergonzi, Tozzi)

4. Aida - Cleveland '64
Cond: Silvio Varviso
(Corelli, Gorr, MacNeil)

5. Die Frau Ohne Schatten - Stockholm '75
Cond: Berislav Klobucar
(Wennberg, Kastu, Ericsson)

.
Birgit Nilsson as Lady Macbeth (top), as the dyer's wife in Die Frau Ohne Schatten, as Amelia i Un Ballo di Maschera, as Salome and as Aida.

I would nothing but honor her right here and right now with a flawless high C.

If I only could.

// T.

Driftwood

2011-04-01T19:37:00.000-07:00

I'm sure some stories are best untold.

But it does make one wonder how on earth a ...

Don't worry. Even I wouldn't go there.

Anyone?

// T.

(A Life within These)

2011-03-31T22:41:00.000-07:00

Apparently this is what a dog named Watson looks like with the ears full of unrefined cotton wool.

Found the photo when googling “fat cotton”, and felt it pretty much illustrated what I feel like today. My brain is suffering from a forced creative overload and feels like fat and unrefined cotton against my forehead.

I tried to renew my life by going to the gym and for once give my legs a serious workout. Instead of inspiration I got out with a broken hamstring.

At work, I discovered that my shirt were sliding up and created a Spice Girls-gap on my tummy. Posh, Sporty, Scary, Ginger and Baby were back in fashion the other year and their concert at Wembley Stadium sold out in 38 seconds. But no,not really suitable on a man soon to turn 40.

My iTunes stubbornly refuses to take the final scene from Callas 'I Puritani', and instead of Palacio de las Bellas Artes-‘53 I get to reboot Compac-‘10.

Right now life finds itself within a bracketing parenthesis.

You and me, Watson.

// T.

Hamlet Knew

2011-03-31T00:44:00.000-07:00

”The time is out of joint…”

I’ve turned down a job. But I guess what else is to be expected?

I mean we do live in a world where Madonna is better known as a 50 year old pop-tart with preservative fluids in her veins, than as being the mother of a guy named Jesus...

It’s also a world where a flight ticket to Paris costs less than a two block cab ride, oil prices in despite...

We also live in a time in which most countries still only the King is allowed to marry a Queen...

Well, it’s obviously clear that I’m not the one to set it right again.

// T.

The Smile

2011-03-29T16:07:00.000-07:00

It's rare, but it does happen.

.

For those of you who don't believe it, I do smile sometimes.

The unexpected took place in South Beach, Miami this past Saturday at 3:48pm when a friend scared the shit out of me by pulling out his iPhone and snapping away.

But it did require half a pitcher of Frozen Margarita.

// T.

The Sadness

2011-03-28T19:02:00.000-07:00

I was actually quite happy.

A nice day in the sun, no stress and the Atlantic waves washing my thoughts away. Sun was setting and I took this photo and posted it on Facebook with the caption "There are something about palm trees and late afternoons..."

All of a sudden friends asked "Why I was so sad?", which was surprising since I referred it to something nice and being in a good mood. After a while some 25 comments later where friends urged me "to smile more," and others remembering that I actually "did smile once", someone finally nailed it.

My some kind of a cousin Kristine told me she gets the same thing, and that she often has been told that "the sadness is our family feature."

"The sadness is our family feature."

Isn't that sad so say... ?

// T.

Journalistic Journey

2011-03-27T22:41:00.000-07:00

They always seemed to run into Robert de Niro at the door while the music from a live band, soon to be on everyone’s lips, grew stronger as the Manhattan night grew darker.

While I was stuck in my hometown where ski-wax was the only talk of the town, the newspapers' international correspondents met up at some classy New York bar named after a woman.

I pictured them all there, in the dim light and around a clothed table, gossiping the total truth we never got to read in the papers. Colleagues dropping by after having made their deadlines to share stories and adding new topics at the same pace as the waiters pouring fuel to the ongoing fires.

I pictured them as a kind of a tight blazer-wearing pack with a codex of keeping what really was to be read between the lines and to be kept between the sheets. These guys and their chronicles became my childhood’s favorite escape and their lifestyle was the ultimate symbol of freedom. A life beyond borders balancing on the sharpness of a pen.

Since then I’ve always wanted to sit down at that table. The other night when passing through Manhattan I was honored to do it for the first time (as the tag-along newbie reporter of an accepted and acclaimed photographer).

It was a table full of sharing, stories and secrets. There were fires and a full-filling waiter. I didn’t run into Robert de Niro at the door, but had a world famous tennis player at the neighboring table. Even the blazer was represented.

It all took place at The Lion at 62 W 9th St. Noisy, busy, pricey - but a really good time and worth every penny.

There was just one thing not accurate to the naive escapism of a young boy.

The restaurant was named after an animal.

// T.

Oh Lord...

2011-03-24T21:28:00.000-07:00

Hotel The Forum at Pompano Beach is your private piece of Heaven for only 59 bucks a night.

The room came with a stunning view.
***

The offered literature gave you insight.

***

The breakfast was nutritiously correct and the coffee warm.
***

Thank God the room came with proper wanking tissues at the bedside table.

***

And off cause it was Heavenly Soft!

***

Amen.

// T.

6:22 AM

2011-03-22T10:14:00.000-07:00

// T.

Humor or Horrifying?

2011-03-21T17:33:00.000-07:00

I never knew that all it took to be featured in a fashion blog was a grumpy face and a single white singlet.

Well, to be totally truthful I think it was more a combination of charity, Cheltenham and morbid shoe making which brought this photo into “I would Kill for Fashion”.

This furry footwear will be sold for the prize of a down payment on a new car at the most popular equestrian event in Great Britain, Cheltenham Gold Cup, an event Queen Elizabeth II rather would renounce her crown then miss out on.

According to the models, who are gladly posing wearing matching colors and looking like something out of The Chronicles of Narnia, they are “surprisingly comfortable”… and kind of makes you “want to sprint down that last furlong yourself”. The blogger also mentions that yours truly might be taking a closer look at them within the near future. The boots, guys, not the models.

When posting it on Facebook my horse loving friends bucked immediately, booted the boot as an obscenity and called it a lame joke… which made me think.

If they break, do I bring them to a shoemaker or a farrier?

// T.

Another Tragedy

2011-03-20T11:12:00.000-07:00

I hope it has nothing to do with my last posting...

The world famous German polar bear Knut is dead. This Justin Bieber (and later Charlie Sheen) of the bears was playing in his enclosure when he suddenly dropped dead in front of a 700 heads audience. When the rangers came to the rescue floated Knut lifeless in the water.

Now little national hero Knut had been in serious trouble several times before. His mother Tosca didn’t want to have anything to do with him at birth, so the most dangerous predator in the world was raised by… Germans. Thanks to his cute and furry blond appearance the cub became a world celebrity. (Not claiming Justin Bieber to be a cub – see below: Bears, Cubs and Otters)

Justin ... Charlie

Then he did a Charlie Sheen. As a two-year-old he was accused by an American Zoologist of becoming a psychopath since he screamed as soon as he didn’t get human attention – and was put on drugs. Knut made headlines again when the other polar bears in the compound teamed up and tried to kill Knut by stabbing him and push him into the water.

The same year the kinky little Knut’s masculinity was threatened by German activists, who wanted chop his nuts since he paid an unhealthy interest in his cousin Giovanna.

The Mayor of Berlin says to the Berliner Zeitung that “we all held him very dear” and call Knut’s death “horrific”. Let's all hope that the new favorite pet of the Germans - Heidi the cross-eyed opossum meets a better destiny.

Heidi the cross-eyed opossum...

Japan. Libya. Knut.

There truly is no ending in the wold tragedies right now.

// T.

P.S. It is currently unclear what killed Knut, but he will be necropsied to determine the cause of death.

Bears, Cubs and Otters

2011-03-18T17:50:00.000-07:00

It’s a fucking zoo out there.

“Otters”. The other day I was talking to a friend over breakfast when the subject came up. (don’t ask me how cause I can’t remember anyway) We both lately have been encountering the word in conversations where the otters obviously not were the cute little furry sea animal making funny noises wile tanning their bellies on the surface.

After consulting the big G on our mobile devices we got the explanation. An otter is a very hairy (preferably with hair on shoulders and back) thin or skinny man "hanging around bears," and most often "passive when it comes to sex".

Now I can never look an innocent otter the same way...

We also found out that there are more species of bears in the gay fauna than at the world’s largest Bear Park in my childhood's Orsa (very suiting name, right?)

So girls, guys and Grizzlies… here is the full terminology. Just beware when bear trapping in the near future. You might not get they prey you planned:

Bear: a hairy man of any age with a stocky or heavy-set build and facial hair.
Black Bear: a Bear of African-American descent or of darker toned skin.
Brown Bear: a Bear of Hispanic descent.
Chub: a heavy set gay man. May or may not be a bear.
Cub: a younger version of a Bear, typically but not always with a smaller frame. The term is sometimes used to imply the passive partner in a relationship.
Cubby: a guy who maybe a chubby cub.
Daddy Bear: an older bear, sometimes looking for a daddy/son relationship with a younger man.
Goldilocks: a female, often heterosexual in the company of bears - a bear's fag hag.
Leather Bear: a bear with a leather fetish.
Muscle Bear: a muscular version of a Bear. A muscle cub is a younger or smaller, yet muscular, version.
Naired Bear: a stocky or heavy-set that shaves his body.
Otter: a man who is hairytypically thinner, swimmer's build, lean or no muscle.
Panda Bear: a bear of Asian descent.
Pocket Bear: a short Bear.
Pocket cub: a short Cub or a Cub who stays in the background of social events.
Polar Bear: a silver- or white-haired Bear.
Puppy: a younger guy who may not fit into the Bear, Cub, Wolf, or Otter types.
Red bear: a red-haired bear. Also known as a Ginger Bear.
Wolf: a term for a Muscle Bear who is a rugged outdoorsy or biker type.
Woof: a greeting sometimes used when a Bear sees another Bear in public and wants to express physical attraction.

Brown Bear? ... Muscle Bear?

Once upon a time a Bear was out strolling with two pocket cubs, Goldilocks and bunch of chubby bears when a wolf, a Polar Bear and two otters passed by. The wolf woofed at one of cubs, but had nothing for it; the pocket cub was only into Pandas...

As said, it’s a fucking zoo out there…

// T.

Porn. Or Poor?

2011-03-17T21:20:00.000-07:00

Sure, we had some poor years there around 1977.

But mother never told me that it was a year of such a bad harvest that we couldn’t afford clothes. Lately I've found myself popping up on my own instant messenger. Notably always under the age of ten and - and butt naked.

Turning 60 my father has gone cyber. Some evil bastard (obviously not aware of the consequences to follow) made the terrible mistake by in his possession placing a second hand scanner. Then that same someone made it even worse by initiate him in the sacred art of using it.

Happy as a naked child, carrying that damned scanner under his right arm and raiding the family albums with the left, my father then ran amok. How else can I explain this... ?

Me, sister and a carpet from hell...

It’s not just that the digitized young me is spread through the space of cyber and probably is doing a remarkable success in pedophile networks all around Belgium.

Neither is it that this is the most unflattering photo ever taken of my older sister who later became a Little Miss Sunshine in beauty pageants.

I can even cope with the fact that we out of no known reasons are wearing knitted woolen caps. But have look at the above linoleum once again. And on the wall too! Grace!

This lino made a mark, and it’s brown kaleidoscope pattern is forever copy pasted and intervened in my brain. It has become a harder knot than the Gordian to solve, and even an Alexander - how great he yet might be - could break it.

No wonder therapists have gone mad along the way, and that my psychiatrist resigned from duty. So to all of you who wondered what really goes on inside my head, here's your answer;

It's nothing but the traces and legacy of a classic 1970-ties kitchen carpet.

// T.

Just Married

2011-03-16T00:12:00.000-07:00

We made it legal.

It wasn’t love at first sight, but something grew. One day she smiled at me and I noticed her Rita Hayworth curves and colors. After that I started to lead her more gently in our regular waltzing around in the apartment, and she followed wherever and however I lead her.

This eternal beauty keeps my home clean without ever complaining. She never raises her voice, and some people even call her an Ultra Silencer. Sometimes I give her presents, like a new bag from time to time. I think she likes it.

She doesn’t tell me in words, but wow how effective her lips get.

Today we danced again.

Me and my beautiful red head!

// T.

Palm Reading

2011-03-15T06:11:00.000-07:00

Considering there are more lines in a palm than at a circuit party, it's not that strange that the first literature on the subject was written already 5 000 years ago.

It's everywhere, newspapers, flyers, Internet and even as notes on telephone poles. Palm-reading advertising comes in many shades, just like Cher.

It's fantastic how much that can be read about your life, just by showing a gifted person your palm. Things as life, health and future can easily be read out of it's lines, as well as love, loss and lotto-numbers.

There are even spiritual entrepreneurs who can build a business, and open up shops where you can have your palms read. One on one or in group sessions, if you prefer to have your palm read in the company of others who also want to get theirs read by the master medium.

For a long time I've been thinking about having my palm read. But it always falls through on the logistics...

They are too hard to bring.

// T.

Haircut

2011-03-14T19:26:00.000-07:00

Dogs are barking and yesterday I was mistaken for being the pussy of a bear.

My hair grows in a circle. It’s as if most of my follicles have slide down from the former so furry top of my head and found a new home around the ears.

This creates a certain unbalance when it comes to the volume of my hair. My body is obviously preparing for the inevitable by generating some form of mysterious anabolic fertilizer – for fur. It will end up with a full circle of hair below a polished bald top, looking half like Danny de Vito and half like Abraham Lincoln.

It hasn’t been of any troubles until now. People are grabbing the medieval bear spears again.

The *beeeeeeeep* of a female bear?

But I do need a haircut.

Seriously.

// T.

Clean Start

2011-03-13T10:09:00.000-07:00

Doing laundry on a Saturday night ought to be mandatory.

Woke up in an apartment full of Sunday sunshine, birdsong and a soothingly matched fresh scent of fabric softener.

A perfect morning.

If it wasn't for my debacle with "daylight saving time", the timer and the coffee pot.

// T.

Feeling Blue

2011-03-11T16:49:00.000-08:00

Sometimes one has no reasons at all to.

But one does, anyway.

// T.

Black Swan

2011-03-09T18:15:00.000-08:00

There have been many swans dying lately.

I can’t tell why, but this over 100 years old film clip is flapping its way right into my heart. Regardless of color – no death of a swan’s has ever been like the one of Anna Pavlova.

She was the Madonna of her time and a household name. Her principal piece and signature was “The Dying Swan” - danced to the choreography of Mikhail Fokine and the music of Camille Saint-Saëns solo for cello.

After touring the world by train and steamboats, giving name to a cake of cream and kiwi, performed "The Dying Swan" over 4000 times (sometimes even on packing cases), she arrived at a hotel room in The Hague, Netherlands in 1931.

After being diagnosed with pneumonia she had to cancel. Pavlova refused to have an operation that also would be the end of her career.

After three weeks she fell into unconsciousness. One day later she woke up and said:

- Get my swan costume ready. And play the last measure very softly…

Then Anna Pavlova was no more.

// T.

Shark is Back

2011-03-08T22:44:00.000-08:00

The dogs are safe.

The by winds yesterday stray Great Withe Death is now back in its normal element.

Just so you know.

// T.

Shark Attack

2011-03-08T00:57:00.000-08:00

It came out of nowhere and the attack was merciless.

It sure was a windy night. But still you don’t expect to become shark food when house sitting in the Hollywood Hills. A coyote or a raccoon, yes… but The Great White Death – no.

All I heard was a dog howling in panic followed by a big shabang as the smallest of three dogs almost ran through the glass door when the shark came leaping through the air. The two bigger ones came right after looking either scared or guilty.

The wind had encouraged the lethal hunter of the great depths to escape the backyard pool and go for the dogs... and it was obviously heading for the house.

There is never a harpoon when you need one.

Shark!

// T.

The Party

2011-03-07T12:28:00.000-08:00

It’s an interesting mix of Greek bums, operatic parrots, Guava punch and genuine generosity.

At a hilltop house half way to Fresno where the only neighbors consists of cougars, coyotes and Californian bears, one of the most oddly wonderful events is held at a regular basis. If you ever get an invitation to Charles Anthony Neeley’s Opera Potluck Party - go!

Last time I was there Madame Butterfly was brutally interrupted during her aria by a green Amazon singing Lucia di Lammermoor’s Mad Scene from its cage in the kitchen. One of the guests brought “stumplings” – since her husband just had gone through an amputation. The entire house was decorated in Japanese items and the 1906-version of the Star Spangled Banner was blanketed.

This Saturday the Greek flag was honoring the screening of Richard Strauss’ Elektra. The operatic parrots had been deported to Illinois, and were replaced by AppleTV and a display of images obtained when randomly googling the words “Elektra” and ”Greece” . Whilst Birgit Nilsson, bubbly butts, Astrid Varnay, beaching bears (another kind of them), Ernestine Schumann-Heink, Greek torsos and other Myconian Mischief paraded by on the screen, a splendid Guava Punch was sipped and traditional Dolmes munched on.

Together we all watched the enchanting story about a family more fucked up than Charlie Sheen and three women having even more problems than the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Then the tragedy turned into triumph … and was rounded up with an episode of Fawlty Towers.

There are limits on how much emotions and impressions are possible during one single evening. I’m not sure I’ve processed mine yet and will probably out of nowhere start to speak Greek, make an exotic fruit punch and buy a parrot.

Astid Varnay... Beach Bear...

As said: There are parties. And there are Charles Anthony Neeley’s Opera Potluck Parties.

Hell Yes – I’m doing it again!

// T.

Raunchy Rafa

2011-03-04T22:14:00.000-08:00

It’s over between me and Rafael Nadal.

Fully exposing his racket stand, and with soaking wet bedroom eyes begging to be balled right in the center court. Since a week ago the bent over Spanish Smasher has been all willing and all waiting outside my office.

But I need you out of my life now Rafa, so I can get back to normal and look at tennis with the same yes again. That straight backhand you pull along my baseline is as unforgivable as unstoppable. You’ve high balled me one last time.

Even though I must say that those precisely placed ground stokes of yours always did end in a perfect drop shot… No.

No matter how much you beg for more on that big Armani billboard - we’re through.

But thanks for showing me what the Grand Slam is all about.

// T.

P.S. I’m a traditional oldtimer so i'm returning to my whole life-relation with Björn Borg. Mainly because fantastic Fila is so much hotter…

Movie Week

2011-03-04T16:02:00.000-08:00

Let's just say I got inspired...

After Sundays gala-gluttony I spent the week watching movies. When not working on busy stories about Swedish stylists, hotels in Lake Como round trips in Rajasthan, or men who won the Elitloppet (the Kentucky Derby of Sweden) - I really needed to stay off the computer and rinse my brain.

Therefore I tagged along to some pre-premiere screenings, and did another on the couch. (Since I missed it when in theaters.)

Tuesday: Rango

Verdict: Nnaaaaahhhhooo....oook.

Was expecting so much more after all the buzz with Depp&Co. Sure, a bunch of few funny side characters, and laughs here and there - what else to expect when Captain Jack Sparrow goes dirt(y) in the dessert. I guess good animations and household names aren't just enough anymore since Toy Story took this genre to another level of animation emotion. And sorry to say - Rango is no Toy Story.

***

Wednesday: The Adjustment Bureau

Verdict: Interesting.

This is Matrix dressed in tweed. Sleek and stylish angels(?) in hats running through doors and doing their best to fuck up an already non-existing love story between Matt Damon and Emily Blunt. Off course Damon&Blunt get even more persistent to go through with it and challenges God(?). After snatching a tweed hat they go for a run obviously(?) sponsored by the Visitors Bureau of New York. But i do like it, how strangely it may seem. Or maybe I've been adjusted?

***

Saturday: Let Me In

Verdict: Yes, damn they did it.

After winning not only the Tribeca Filmfestival, but also the blood-pumping hearts of vampire lovers and film-critics all around the world, taking on the task of doing the American remake of Swedish blockbuster Let The Right One In must be considered Van Helsig-brave. It's faster, braver, darker and take more sides than the original. It's two great movies. Very alike but totally unlike. "Best American horror movie in 20 years" says Stephen King. And I guess he ought to know. And yes, the girl form Kick-Ass really kicks ass.

***

Next Thursday: Battle of Los Angeles

Verdict: ...

Well, I'll be back, as Arnold said.

Stay tuned.

// T.

J's Legacy

2011-03-01T22:21:00.000-08:00

Great people leaves great things behind.

Today my dear friend and colleague J started a long journey. Behind he left half a bag of cheese nachos, some hot salsa and George W. Bush's Decision Points.

A legacy as good as any.

// T.

True Friends

2011-02-24T16:47:00.000-08:00

Really?

As a result of iTune's frightening attack on my self esteem the other day, I asked my Facebook friends to recommend some morning walk music. I’m not sure it ended up much better.

Keep on Walking - Salem al Fakir
“Telepopmusic in general”
Always - Erasure (2009 mix)
Driver Dagg Faller Regn - Andreas Lundstedt
Elektra’s Monolouge
“Kylie !!!!”
Another day in paradise – Phil Collins
"Neville Brothers"
“Aretha, the one and only”
Don’t look back in anger – Vitamin String Quartet
”I’ll sing something.”
"Ratata"
”Vikingarna or Lill-Babs.”
Han går som en karl - Lill Lindfors (He walks like a man)
Rock’n Roll all night - KISS

C'mon friends, that’s even worse.

Thanks.

// T.

A Big Poof

2011-02-22T23:51:00.000-08:00

I shouldn’t have but I did.

From fiddly folk music via Maori tribes, German pirate metal and Barbara Streisand to freaky fucking Westife singing Abba . According to Steve Jobs I’m gayer than Glee and apparently also severely schizophrenic.

This morning I had no inspiration what so ever when it came to music for my morning walk. So I let iTunes take care of it by suggesting, downloading and creating a playlist - all after it's own inspiration to whats in my music library and to my earlier purchases in their iTunes Store. This is how it ended up;

Små Blå Horgalåten
Björn Skifs Fångad i en Dröm
Eric Saade Manboy
Maria Callas Voi Sapete o Mamma
Kylie Minouge Can’t Get You Out of my Head
John Williams Jaws
Edward Grieg Morning
Running Wild Riding the Storm
Mirella Freani Un bel di vedremo
Maori Tribe Poi Medley
Belinda Carlisle California
Barbara Streisand Left in the Dark
Birgit Nilsson Pace, Pace Mio Dio
U2 Beautiful Day
Glen Miller In the Mood
Jessica Andersson I did it for Love
Luciano Pavarotti La Donna e Mobile
Lili&Susie What’s the Color of Love?
Westlife I Have a Dream

Then I couldn’t take it anymore.

It’s simple. iTunes tells you who you truly are. Save thousands of therapy dollars.

I'm obviously nothing but a walking catastrophe.

// T.

The Fashion Police

2011-02-21T10:01:00.000-08:00

It doesn’t always turn out as planned.

What was meant to be Julia Varady in the opera Don Carlos ended up as Joan Rivers and the E! Grammy Awards Fashion Police. I must admit that Katy Perry in angel wings, Jennifer Lopez in a disco ball and Lady Gaga as an egg was a spectacle fully worthy the most extravagant Verdi production.

When done on the treadmill I looked at myself in the mirror and praised the lord that Joan Rivers’s presence at Equinox only was limited to the E!-rerun...

Now if I was a popular lifestyle and fashion blogger I would probably never have posted those photos above, neither telling you that today's outfit consists of giveaways except for the Nike training pants in a beige color making my hips look like Beyonce´s, and the Asics giving me blisters.

I just wonder what Joan Rivers would say about the T-shirt featuring Thomas Nilsson (Swedish TV-personality in the horse-racing broadcasts), and the bright colored Jamaica Beach Bag for kids. (Sponsored byNational Geographic).

If I also was truly dedicated to my task, I would have carried on telling that the 60 minute power walk on the treadmill (7% incline at the speed of 7 km/h) was followed by breakfast consisting of oatmeal, blueberries, raisins, cinnamon, salt and milk free of fat and lactate.

And then off course posted a photo...

Well, I’m not a lifestyle and fashion blogger, so I’ll leave that to other more talented and suited for the mission. But if I was, I wish I would be as good (and good looking!) as journalist Jennie Hammar in her excellent blog Stockholm-Los Angeles.

So I’ll just carry on with the same old random ramblings of a confused mind.

And some opera from times to times.

// T.

Eurovision Song Contest

2011-02-20T00:58:00.000-08:00

It's quite hard to believe.

But once the Eurovision was known for spreading other kind of music in direct broadcasts than all the tremendous joy which the Eurovision Song Contest has served for almost 60 years.

But then, what were we if they would have kept on airing clips like this piece below from 1957 instead of giving us Ruslana, John Teigen, and the Holy Carola herself.

After watching the Swedish Eurovision Song Contest Qualifications I deeply recommend some "Callasoteraphy" to purge the crap out of ones system.

Greece - 12 points, La Grece -12 points!

// T.

Featuring Facebook

2011-02-18T17:10:00.000-08:00

One photo - 30 comments.

Never knew my morning hike would become such an inspiration for so many minds. Regardless of borders, time zones, intentions or sexuality it became conversations with weird turns as Chinese dogs, saddling water fountains, accusations of posing, lunch dates and serious philosophy.

First out was a German living in London who liked the photo, followed by a fireman in Sweden accusing background Hollywood to be Skara. A horse trainer liked the photo, followed by another Swede saying it is Falköping. Then a copywriter accused me for “posing as usual”, right before a Mexican friend in Los Angeles wondered if it was the water fountain I was saddling. After asking the copywriter who’s the real poser was and linking to this photo – he took that back.

The poser himself...

An entomologist at the Uppsala University then suggested it was Halle-Hunneberg, before I made a joke and said it was Tibro, a joke that a female Swedish TV-producer made thumbs up for. Then another horse trainer commented on the altitude of the hike, before my friend Birgitta asked me to give the dog’s owner her warmest regards.

Then a stood-up lunch date half a world away found that it now was too far for a lunch, followed by the groom of the world’s greatest race horse sending a cyber hug. Then a dog-loving old ex-girlfriend spotted the black beauty in the photo and asked for it’s name, followed by an editor in chief of a magazine stating his approval. Off course I informed the ex-girlfriend that the dog is named Smulan and was a street puppy in Beijing before found and brought to the US. And that the dog isn’t mine.

Smulan the dog...

A stylish stylist then made fun over me sitting like dog, before a man from the Canary Islands came to my noble rescue, and accused the earlier copy writer for saying that the sports outfit wasn’t making me "look gorgeous". Then another Londoner held me for cruising in the LA outskirts, something that immediately was corrected by informing that Runyon Canyon actually only is a few blocks away from the Kodak Theatre and the Academy Awards red carpet.

Then the background came up for discussion again and an earlier spokesman joined in again and claimed that it did look like Falköping ("the most boring town in Sweden") with Ålleberg in the background. Yours truly told him that that sure was a compliment for Falköping, but that I wasn’t sure Los Angeles would feel as flattered. Then the copy writer said that there are many cities competing to be the most boring one; Lysekil, Ulricehamn, Skövde, Skara, Oskarshamn and Vadstena for example.

Los Angeles look-alike Falköping...

Someone answered that he was brought up in Vänersborg, and that wasn’t as fun either. The copy writer stated that there are many cities as exciting as a “nail in the foot” and said its good that one can move, but that it’s harder to escape from oneself.

The last comment was the same earlier someone saying that “yes, sometimes one has to make an ending statement and start all over again.”

That’s exactly what I will do; a new nonsense posting coming up tomorrow.

Facebook – connecting people. Just as Nokia used to do.

// T.

Fiasco

2011-02-17T12:55:00.000-08:00

The word is Italian and means “bottle”.

A magazine recently listed the biggest "fiascoes" in history. Fun reading, especially since one of them is one of the greatest successes of all times.

The Tacoma Narrows Bridge...

In July 1940 the 3rd longest hanging bridge in the world was opened. Three months later it blew down. No one died, accept the dog of an eyewitness'.

The Vasa...

It was the most modern warship of its time and meant to make the navy of Sweden respected in Europe back in 1628. Instead it sank on its maiden voyage, less than 1500 yards from the dock. 350 years later it was salvaged and is today a museum in Stockholm - unique in it's kind.

The Flagellants...

These religious self-mortification pilgrimage thought their penance would appease God and end the Black Plague which killed 20 million people back in medieval Europe. Instead it carried and spread the Black Death to new cities.

The Spruce Goose...

Howard Huges giant airplane in plywood was as big as the Airbus A380 of today. In 1947 is took off from Long Beach, California. It reached about 20 meters above the sea and kept airborne fort the length of an Olympic sprint. Then never flew again.

Crassus’ Crusade...

The roman consul Crassus led his army into the Syrian Desert in a crusade against the Parthians. When far enough into the sand the Parthians struck and killed 20 000 Romans and captured another 10 000. Crassus was killed and the winners poured melted gold down his throat as a punishment for his greed.

The Aral Sea...

When the Soviet Union leaders decided to make Uzbekistan and Azerbaijan desserts into cotton-producing land they drained all the rivers leading to Lake Aral. What 1960 was the 4th largest lake in the world is today a giant salt pan full of poison and pollutions. (But Uzbekistan actually became one of the world’s largest cotton producers)

Scott’s South Pole Expedition...

When they finally got there, there was already a Norwegian flag. On the way back all five men died. Robert Falcon Scott became a hero, while Norwegian winner Amundsen was seen on as cunning and foul. But with time perception changed; Amundsen was better prepared, for example with better clothes and dogs instead of Scott’s ponies to pull the sleighs.

Madame Butterfly...

Booing, jeering, horse laughs and other miscellaneous animal sounds. That’s how the premiere audience greeted Puccini’s’ opera when it first opened at legendary La Scala in Milan back in 1904. Puccini was devastated, rewrote the opera, and had a new premiere in Brescia, far from Milan and La Scala. Today this fiasco is one of the most beloved operas of all times and one of the genres’ biggest successes ever.

Wait.

Since the use of the word in this term comes from when people supposedly threw bottles at the actors in Italians theatres, I guess Madame Butterfly after all is the only true fiasco of the above?

I rest my case.

// T.

Clip: A 24 year-old Anna Moffo as Madame Butterfly in the classic Eurovision broadcast by RAI, 1956.

Business Class

2011-02-16T21:39:00.000-08:00

There is something about being tastefully tipsy before lunch - and totally allowed to.

The first sign of intoxication struck about 30 000 feet above and a few miles north of the Viking capital of Trondheim, Norway.

After giving in to great service and suggestions by the splendid Scandinavian Airlines purser Ms. Cina, I found myself with a great smile over my face, a glass of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand in one hand and an utterly competitive piece of French heaven in form of a Sancerre in the other. Something which would never had happened if it weren’t for the 17yo Ballantines my timid throat embraced only minutes earlier.

The unexpected main course wine tasting, the return of the always suggesting purser Ms. Cina and a seductive bottle of Port resulted in a sweet addition to the cheese plate and fig marmalade. And an even wider smile.

Greenland as seen through alcohol...

The beautiful fact that Scandinavian Airlines is honoring the 100th birthday of Jussi Björling’s by offering his 1956 recording of Puccini’s La Bohème in their music system made the choice of in-flight entertainment pretty easy. (The other option was Ben Affleck in The Town…)

This one of the original three tenors will certainly keep me away from the buffet, and by the time Victoria de Los Angeles will die as Mimi, I will be ready for the upcoming Pork Pastrami, hand peeled shrimps and Coconut&Pineapple Cake somewhere over the Canadian mainland.

I just wonder what suggestion and bottle the splendid purser Ms. Cina will have up her sleeve. No matter what – I’ll have two.

Cheers!

// T.

A Month of Microphones

2011-02-07T08:09:00.000-08:00

The grip gave me calluses.

Normally they are the outcome of an overdose of pitchforks, potato picking, barbells or too industrious tar-boiling. Mine came from never letting go of the microphone – and no, it was not karaoke.

It started out with a smile and some old school Hollywood glamor.

Photo: Thomas Engström

During January I’ve been interviewing everything that moved.

From old school Hollywood, via Norwegian stand-up artists performing during constant Muslim death threats, to new style Swedish actors and slightly older True Blood vampires, none has escaped my right hand.

Not even being a furry four legged French racing champion, a Swedish Shipping Queen or a Finnish hard worker afraid of words has found mercy when it comes to being put on the spot.

Young Mr. Bill Skarsgård and the iPhone version.

Photo: Thomas Engström

Double Prix d'Amerique winner Franck Nivard. It's always easier interviewing people with a fear of microphones when wearing blue fox.

Photo: Lars-Ove Pettersson.

The sad sight after a month full of abusing.

Photo: Thomas "Blomman" Blomqvist

If you anytime during this February run in to me holding that metallic machine, please do me the favor…

And another bunch in a mix of meatballs and Academy Awards...

Camera & Editing: Thomas Engström

… and shove it deep down my throat!

// T.