A towel and a star will open doors, I tell you.

It’s pretty daunting looking at a blank page. And especially a blank blogger post. I mean, I’d decided to start back writing about whatever random crap has decided to fuck up my day on any given day - but I made the mistake of going back to the start and seeing what Old Young Me had to say.

What I found was that Old Young Me was pretty damn smart and quick-witted. I’m willing to bet that she was also about 20% more attractive than me, and that whatever boobiage she had was about 40% perkier. Mine kind of just look sad these days, dipping downward so as to reflect a generally more sadder, more realistic outlook on life. By now I, for example, know that:-

• Whereas Old Young Me wanted to look my best for Andreas, Old Regular Me settles for getting dressed in the morning.
• Whereas Old Young Me would consider looking all super-fine in goth-garb and broody to the ultra-max, Old Regular Me thinks a sunny disposition and a towel is fine.
• Whereas Old Young (foolish) Me would have only used a towel to dry herself, Old Regular Me thinks that a towel is useful for both drying oneself AND as a wrap, a turban, a way to hitchhike your way through the galaxy, and as something that is quite handy in that it has a whole four corners for cleaning one's ears and, at times, random cat throw-up.
• You can get the best, cheapest multi-purpose towels at Swedish superstore 'Överskottsbolaget'.
• Överskottsbolaget does not appreciate it when you walk in in a towel. Even if its with their logo. Especially if it's with their logo.
• And you know what, I don't really think that you have the right to be uppity when you sell products called "canned Entray Côte" or "Sneekers Bars".

The gist of it being, I think I need to start emulating Old Young Me a bit more. Be a bit snazzier. Not in the way that I'd tack gold stars stickers to my terry cloth wrap, but just you know - more pizazz. Maybe challenge myself to do something new everyday. I could totally challenge myself to do something new everyday.

Or at least every other day. As soon as next year, even - it's the long term investments that pay off, right?

Fuck it, gold stars aren't that bad when you think about it. When I was young, getting a gold star sticker in your book meant that you were somebody. So that must count for something. I could totally be somebody special again.


Totally.

I love death

Lodger's video and lyrics pretty much hit the spot: "a man can get a few dimes / a man can get it up few times". And that pretty much sums up the cyclical nature of the puny human life. You're born, grow up, have babies, work, take a piss ever so often - and then die. The End. Congratulations.

Of course, I doubt that Lodger has factored in frequent trips to the Caribbean into their somewhat morose equation. Which is where I'm heading in two months, for a month of sand, sea and completing a master's degree.

To be followed by babies, work, taking a piss ever so often, and then death. The End. Maybe my Caribbean 'fun in the sun' stint - and the inevitable sand in the vagina - is implicitly categorized under 'work', because God knows that desperately scraping it out isn't the sextravagnaza it's cracked up to be. But it's one way avoiding the other option of walking like you have an unruly invisible horse between your legs.

(somethingawful.com)

But speaking of (hobby-) horses, pursuing those last Master's points means that I'm pretty much coming to an end of the whole degree thing at the university I'm attending. Which means that given that everything falls into place, I should by the end of it all have enough qualifications and fancy pieces of paper to land me a fine job pushing burgers at MacDonalds. But I still do believe that having and English Lit degree will mean having the upper hand while there, as I'll be able to conjugate my nouns into plural form. Which means that I'll be able to offer one customer more than one burger at a time.

And there's alot to be said for that, which I won't. Firstly because it's too damn depressing a thought in general, secondly because I have to run out and find an appropriately formed spatula for my upcoming vacation drudgery.

Ah, woe is me. You'll find me at the sun-screen section with a smile on my face and some spare "-s" or "-es" on my lips in preparation of lesser things to come.

Cats, but not the musical variety.

If nothing else, owning cats makes life a whole lot more interesting. Sure they wake you up by hacking up a lung in the middle of the night because they misjduged the sheer enormity of their midnight snack - but in return their presence makes you more imaginative.

Here's two terms I was forced "imagine up" this morning:

A) Exhibition Puke
The thing you congratulate yourself on quickly spotting as you stumble out of bed.

This is also known as Decoy Puke if you, three seconds later, encounter:

b) Death. Trap. Puke.
A second puke in the area of decoy puke that you SLIP and FALL in while groggily continuing down the hall, too damn busy patting yourself on back for the first - and what you thought was the only - find.

Great way to start the day!

Here's the culprit in question:

Cell

I lost my telephone again. I’d had it for some six months after losing the old one on a bus – and I guess that in its own sentient way this new one knew that his time had come too - it was time to slip away quietly on the bus.

I’ve heard about cell-phones exploding in somebody’s ears, cell-phones protesting their status as objects or objects of statushood through self-immolation, severing major arteries in their violent departures. My cell-phones however, prefer to slink off quietly, stay behind on the bus and hope for a kinder owner. Maybe an owner who will use them for more than just ordering pizza or, when the mood falls in, a kebab.

I don’t mind losing a bit of equipment or electronics or gadget, whatever they’re called these days. Material things have never meant that much to me. I’m glad for my comic book collection, but I’ll get rid of them if I have to, my Lois and Clark DVDs are still wrapped in plastic, I enjoy the idea of things rather than the thing itself. At the same time, I don’t like the thought of someone else touching my stuff. Not the tangible stuff per se, but the photographs I’ve taken. They’re not special by any means, but they’re a glimpse into my personal life. Neither do I like the idea of someone discovering the long list of outgoing calls to pizza places. My pictures of Andreas. My lack of incoming text messages. The vast amount going out, into an empty space it would seem. Me expressing love for someone. My mother telling me, in her own special way, that she” l0Ves” her “dcgghter”.

These little misspellings, oddities and fast food orders that make up our selves and our lives.

I think that the trouble is that the cell-phone is too exact a reflection of who you are rather than a lacking one, and that might be what makes me uncomfortable. Not that someone in some poorer suburb of Stockholm - say Danderyd perhaps - might be counting his lucky stars to have found such a magical thing as a cell-phone, whose sale will surely save his family from starvation. Rather its the thought that before selling it, he might laugh not at the quirky road-signs in my cell-phone album, but the person he imagines to be behind it. A slightly overweight greasy Calzone-lover. Someone with a somewhat simple sense of humor, what with a snapshot of “Restaurant Hos” (Hos!). His smirk at someone who either has a boyfriend that could have done better, or someone has an obsession for creeping into that particular boy’s apartment and taking pictures of him while he sleeps.

The sad thing is not this fool on of the brink of poverty laughing madly at the mental picture my cellphone might conjure, but the fact that it wouldn’t be too far from the truth. Losing a phone I guess, reminds you just how simple you really are. Just a bit of this and that. A fragment. A face of the street, a silly-looking snapshot on someone else’s phone – a cellphone which like you, might one day decide to stay on the bus 21 while everyone else gets off, resuming the life that continues outside.

guadeloupe #2 - Some Glimpses of Guadeloupe.

Petite Terre




Surprisingly, also Petite Terre.



The Night-Sky of Northern Basse-Terre.



Fort Royals reception area by day and -



by Night.





Stormy skies.



...are the perfect excuse to relax in your room with a beers and some ho's (Mr. Ho's)



Besides, you never know when you might be hit by a lightning bolt to the throat.



Guadeloupean Hermit-Crab



One of the less shy hermit crabs.



One of the less shy Petite-Terre iguanas (Petite-Terre houses some 10 000 iguanas, and even more hermit crabs).



Coconut?



Working on that last essay.



My Beautiful counterpart enjoying the beach in the meantime.




A guide trying to escape his tour-group.




Pineapple fields, forever.



Hemmingway's in Deshais. Their specialty is fish, meat is definitely their and your last resort.



Jump.



The perfect New Year's Kiss.



The end.

Guadeloupe Report #1: The Average Langley Fort Royal Hotel visitor.

Middle aged, white, male, and dressed in culinary-related swimwear.





Fucking eclairs??
I did NOT pay for four star hotel to see this shit.

Mensch or Übermensch? You choose!

There is something so very sad about this. How actual people can be either real, or figments of someone's imagination depending on what suffix you use.

Saturday Night's Allright (for sleeping)

As soon as Andreas falls asleep he becomes The Amazing Velcro Man, kittens attached everywhere. Or, well, the singular in this case, the other one has passed out on the floor from too much cat-nip.

It's a slow night.

The more you know.

Fun facts:

In Britain, the dental hygiene system is very poor. This, in addition to a British love of custard, makes for very yellow teeth. This is why British humor is more of the ironic kind rather than slapstick so as to encourage a playful sneer and deter toothy laughs.

In Sweden, about 10% of the population is called Inga. Some might think this confusing, but considering the fact that Sweden is very sexually emancipated and sleeping around is not uncommon, it is rather an advantage to be able to pick two girlfriends with the same name so as to avoid calling the wrong name mid-coitus.

The Caribbean islands are part of North America. One of these islands is called Guadeloupe.

"Despite the plentiful flow of rum there you will seldom see drunk locals. Nor is the male population high often, like [you would see] on many other Caribbean islands; you will feel safe at night." (swedish original highlighted below)

facsimile: Aftonbladet, Author Gunnar Andersson.

I wish I knew what this Gunnar Andersson looked like. I'd like to put a face to the name of the person that compresses the world into such a neat, accessible portion. Unfortunately there are many Gunnar Anderssons out there on google's image search, and to tell you the truth, I do not have the time to try find any distinguishing features. Nor do I have time to make a composite picture of all the Gunnar Anderssons out there. So for the sake of simplicity, I found a picture that will just have to do for the time being.



I suppose I don't have to point out that this is not the actual Gunnar Andersson.

I mean, it's just an ass.

The new Swedish railway ticket pricing system - a.k.a "The Opposite Game!"

Hmm. Let me think, let me think.

First class with its bigger seats and free internet to surf while nibbling on a bit of roquefort, as opposed to the MORE expensive second-class tickets with cramped seats, no internet and the rabble who just smell of roquefort.

I don't know.

If only there were a third option that would perhaps sweeten the deal. One even more expensive than second class but also slightly less comfortable. Looks like Sweden needs to break the illusion of it being a leader in modernity and look to Pakistan for help:



It's hard being a thrill-seeking sado-masochist in this cold, cold place. All this money and no place to fall off of.