NEWS |  ARCHIVES |  LINKS |  SITEMAP |  CONTACT

On Towel Day, the 25th, a whole gang of us joined my brother at a concert where Paza Rahm, Gwen Stacy and first and foremost Binärpilot were playing 8-bit electronica. Boy was that a riot!

Now, 8-bit music tends to attract a considerable amounts of nerds, so it wasn't a big surprise that we were given some recognition for bringing towels with and on us. We were photographed quite a few times by several people, and I was lucky to get my hands on one of the pictures taken by Kristoffer at microdisko:

Getting good and drunk over there. You can see I'm going out of focus:)

The music was incredible and we soon found the towels handy for wiping sweat after the hardest dancing and headbanging I've done for some time. The girls took an obvious interest in our little sect too, which was just brilliant. There's also a picture of my brother being interviewed by a hot radio chick. Too bad I couldn't find any more towel shots. So if you went to the Binärpilot concert in Oslo the 25th, and took pictures of some dudes wearing towels, please contact me so I can get 'em all up here. Recordings from the live concert will be out on the microdisko page later.

Edit 3rd of July: Recordings (mp3), courtesy of microdisko.no

• Paza Rahm
• Gwen Stacy
• Binaerpilot

On the binaerpilot tape you can actually hear us in the crowd between songs.
Paza Rahm and Gwen Stacy played before we'd arrived, but they're worth a listen to:)

Facebook account deactivated
Hi all, after careful consideration I've found that my number of online memberships and hangouts have exceeded what I deem a sensible amount.

Given that Facebook replaces or enhances none of the existing communication platforms I already use, I've decided to deactivate my account. As for the alleged privacy issues of Facebook, I don't actually think they are any worse than other services (myspace, gmail, gulesider etc.) although they certainly do little to stop widespread paranoia.
DON'T PANIC!

For those of you who know me you know how and where to contact me. For others, there's always the phonebook. Cheers!

• Guitars, Cadillacs, Etc., Etc. by Dwight Yoakam
• Moondance, Van Morrison
• If I Should Fall From Grace With God, The Pogues
• Lifestylez Ov Da Poor and Dangerous, Big L
• The Big Picture, Big L
• The Future, Leonard Cohen
• Horses, Patti Smith
• Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller), Captain Beefheart
• Heroes, David Bowie
• Scary Monsters, David Bowie

Can't wait to get them in the collection. I also got the movie Underground from 1995, which has some brilliant big band music throughout the flick.

If you thought I was a nerd before, this won't rectify your image:



Today is Towel Day in memory of Douglas Adams (1952-2001), and naturally I've brought along my towel. Anywhere I go. I soon discovered that very few of the staff actually knew about Adams, although most of them had heard about the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. But none of them had heard about Towel day. So I got a lot of comments like: "been training?", or "been showering?" or "Bin Laden!?" but I swear I won't leave my towel behind, wherever I go in the galaxy.

It has proven to be quite versatile and then not just as a conversation starter. It sheltered me from the sun and rain, it acted like a soft cushion when I sat on some stairs, I used it as a turban during lunch, I spanked a naughty co-worker with it, and presently I've got it over my head to become completely invisible since my hangover has begun to kick in. And I'm sure I will find other uses for it through the rest of the day too. Douglas Adams was absolutely brilliant. Have a nice weekend!

Scaryduck wrote a piece about weird dreams a couple of days ago, and just like him I find them really exhausting. It's interesting because I've heard several other people around are struggling with them these days, and I think it might be because of the changes in light conditions going from Spring to Summer. But anyway. Like in any of my other dreams there be tits (if you're under 18 read: small birds) but not in a good way, and they explode way too often. I have been having a lot of weird dreams myself lately and the consequent bad sleep, and last night was no different. I do remember some details.

I was in some very, very tall building in a semi-futuristic, minimalist restaurant in what reminds me of Cloud City on Bespin, Star Wars Episode V. I distinctly remember the height, and walking about up there, not talking to any of the posh people who could afford to eat there and who were taking off on jet packs and some kind of tractor beam elevators. I got inside, because outside the wind was constantly blowing, and in the innermost left corner of the low-ceiling but brightly decorated restaurant sat a girl eating sausages. She looked shy, but interesting and I sat down just across her. She looked like Samantha Morton as Agatha in Minority Report.

The sausages looked exquisite. It was something of a posh theme here, like sushi, and you could have all kinds of exotic varieties. I had a little of a green-coated, furry sausage that was called Cold sausage for some reason. Yes, it was cold, but that wasn't it. But nevermind, the food wasn't as important as the girl.
"You have nice hands", I said. She did.
I took her one hand and stroked it, and she enjoyed the touching. We got into talking, and I felt good that I could make her smile, and the whole setup was great. The waiter didn't like me, however, as I kept saying I wasn't hungry while everyone knew I couldn't afford it. Eventually we went over to her place.

The hallway where she lived, which looked like any narrow hallway in the Jedi Knight computer game with the ventilation-like gridworks everywhere, was really narrow with doors to identical appartments. They were about the same size as Bruce Willis' appartment in Fifth Element. Some of the doors were see-thru. She noticed that one of her neighbours had got some new kind of equipment, knives, and she was interested in checking them out. The neighbour was out, but I offered to pick the lock, which I did.
Then the neighour got home, into the narrow hallway just behind me, wanting to know what the hell we were doing in his home. The girl was completely absent in her investigation, but I politely told him what it was about and that I would pay for any damage. He was angry about the picked lock. I showed him how I did it, and how the damages on the lock could not have been from my lock-picker.
I distinctly remember how I showed him this.

Then he pulled the knives from the girl and started waving them in my face. I didn't feel much threatened, as he was just angry, not ballistic. The knives were like a Swiss Army knife or a Leatherman, only that they were regular sized carving and butcher knives, and in my face. Then the rest of the neighbours showed up. Fat and ugly stay-at-home mums with a keen eye for domestic violence.
They simply wouldn't hear my story of it, they thought I was harassing the girl who was still in some sort of a sausage high in there, and they started threatening me while the other neighbour actually tried to calm them down. Uh-oh.

A particularly fat and ugly stay-at-home mum brought out her big battery-driven buzz saw. She was going for both me and the other guy. What's funny is that even though it cut some of my flesh on the upper arm and shoulder, it was simply impossible to avoid in the narrow hall, it didn't hurt as much as thought it would. Or rather as I - in my dream - thought it would. You must remember that in weird dreams your mind is working pretty hard, and the reasoning you do makes quite a lot of sense. It's not like a nightmare or a regular at all. I was more annoyed and confused than afraid, although I recognized and tried to avoid the danger. Anyway, the pain was more like a really bad scratch or burn than a circular set of steel teeth destroying your body.
I wanted to let the girl run away, so I pushed myself through the group of crazy women and further into the hallway, going for the stairs.
A screaming red-faced woman came thrashing after me and got hold of me as I got to the last step. I managed to kick her off and watched her fall between an opening between the stairs and the wall, and crash into a blubber heap on the floor two stories down. But the crazy buzz saw woman was quickly advancing up the stairs.

And that's it...
There isn't anything else to say! It's pointless! I didn't make it with the girl, I don't know if she escaped and lived happily ever after, I don't know whether the crazy buzz saw character got hold of me and whether I got out alive or not. Well, probably not. I remember several of these over-weight trailer park kind of women in very much detail, and it's a fair assumption that the battery on the buzz saw would have ran out before I could manage to cut through them all. Given that I could wrench it from the crazy woman in the first place. But the girl and the sausages were nice.. Weird dream.

17th of May
The Seventeenth of May 1814, Norway adopted the modern constitution of America and the French Revolution, and became fiercely proud of it. Most Norwegians are still fiercely proud of it. Didn't take many years until we were back under occupation, this time by the Nazi regime, but from the fifties and until today Norway has been a sovereign and free democracy sitting on a gold mine. Or oil mine, if you want.

Keeping up with traditions, I've heard that Norwegians are one of the few countries in the world to celebrate their National Holiday so fiercely. We don't do fireworks, but we have fierce traditional costumes based on which fierce region or local area you are from, and we naturally have a fierce flag and public parades all over the country. A field day for extreme nationalists. You simply can't escape it.

This 17th of May, like any other since I was around fifteen, I was very hung over. What foreigners don't know is that the 16th is regarded the National Holiday of the Young, meaning there are parties all over the country. I don't remember very much, although I've heard stories about me chucking a chair out off a balcony from the 6th floor, me eating cat food as beer snack, me scaring the cat shitless in the bathroom, and then there was the waking up with shining silver nail polish on all my toes.
I used one and a half hour of the 17th to remove it.
The rest of the day was recreational, you could say, re-creating the normal processes of the body and brain. I crawled out of bed and to the appartment of my brother, got the Children of Dune DVD, bought myself a big chili & pepperoni pizza and took a cab up to my mother's to watch the film and eat. Along the way to the pizzeria I met this girl who works at one of the bars I'm frequenting, and smiling like a fool I was able to make myself understood in single-word sentences that I was unable to comprehend Anything. It was a good day to relax/keep away from the general public.

Jesus returned!.. and then He was killed. Again.
VG reports that Jesus was born again in Omaha, USA in 2001. The miraculous virgin birth of a Hammerhead Shark in a tank containing only females has now been confirmed by scientist, as published in the British Journal Biology Letters. The phenomenon, known among biologists as a "virgin birth," had been observed before among some snakes, lizards, Messiahs and birds, but never a shark, the scientists say. Some sharks can store semen over a very long time, so they performed a DNA test on the new born to see whether Maria could have been impregnated by another variety of the species in the tank. When they removed the mother's DNA from the sample there was nothing left, and there was much rejoicing.
The pup lasted only a few hours before something killed it, possibly a stingray.

«You can tell by the taste!»
A truck that was formerly owned by Gilde, a Norwegian meat product manufacturer, has been making a lot of fuzz around the East and South of Norway. Helse Sør and Helse Øst bought the used truck to pick up arms, legs and other body parts from the hospitals to be handed in to special waste management. With the old Gilde logo and Gilde's motto, «You can tell by the taste!», still attached, it hasn't necessarily brightened up the public image of the company's meat products. Gilde spokesman refrained from comment when asked whether Gilde could need a hand to correct the company's bad image, and he subsequently was reported to leave entirely when asked if he needed something else, like an arm or a leg.

New ship hit by stomach virus
Aftenposten reports that another ship in the Coastal Voyage line (Hurtigruten) has been hit with the norovirus. So if you're a German, French or Japanese tourist who's been looking forward to do the round-trip (I've done it myself) you can now look forward to a spiritual, self-revealing, inner journey as well.
Wikipedia states: "The disease is usually self-limiting, and characterized by nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and abdominal pain. General lethargy, weakness, muscle aches, headache, and low-grade fever may occur. Symptoms may persist for several days and may become life-threatening in the young, the elderly, and the immune-compromised if dehydration is ignored or not treated."
Such an exciting holiday memory will have you pining for the fjords the rest of your existence.

And last but not least..

TOWEL DAY TOMORROW!
Friday the 25th of May every year the world celebrates Towel Day to commemorate Douglas Adams (1952-2001), author of several science fiction comedy books including the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. If you are an avid fan like myself you will bring a towel with you all day, maybe a satchel and a copy of The Guide for evangelization. Myself I'm going to put on my 42 ringer t-shirt from ThinkGeek, as well, being a serious philosopher and that. But whatever you do DON'T PANIC!

My cousin sent me this. I thought I'd translate it for you:



Cheers, mate.. Not really sure what you're trying to imply here, though.. :)

I just returned from my first visit to the institute's massage therapist. Oh, my holy rabbit. When I got outta there I was unable to speak in the elevator, I just leaned up against the wall, drooling, hardly paying any notice to the other passengers. I must have looked pretty drunk. With a goofy smile and a neck that was barely strong enough to stay upright, I said: " Hi.. Massage. Yeah?"

It was a good one. It was painful, sure, but right now I feel like putting my face to rest on the keyboard, on the floor, or just any kind of surface in the horizontal position really. I wanted to give her a hug, and immediately fall asleep on her tits. Being my first time there I guess she talked as much as she did to place me correctly in the social hierarchy. I know all about her and her boyfriend's vacation in Paris, their encounter with a neck-shattering mattress, with all the unspoken action such a proposition would imply to someone like me. I felt we bonded right there. Although I admit the word 'bondage' sprang to mind a split second earlier. With or without the natural body oils.
- Doing anything special on the 17th (national holiday)?
- ...nnngtk! nubnok.. ghnn!
- Yeah, I know exactly how you feel
*panting* (thinking: How can I be sure? Is this legal?)
- So, where in the North are you from?
- t'eh-omsoooh..nn...
- Nice. Never been there. Hang on, this might hurt a bit
*gasp* (thinking: GAaaaaaahh!)

I had to share with her the most intimate details of my back pain, but she'd already begun on my back before I got to the part where I had resolved the mattress issue. When she asked me questions I'd just keep quiet not to scream out in agony or groan like a dirty pig. No chance to explain myself.

Then I told her about mouse-wrist, which I get sometimes, like when I sit on the side of the computer to tutor someone in front of the screen. She only heard the former half-sentence, and before I knew it she'd put my hand on her upper thigh to massage my wrist. Now, a man's mind can be very flexible (see: philosopy) but it also has an auto-switch to the off position in a few special cases (see: sex). When a woman puts a man's hand on her upper thigh, the mind goes: Stroke or grab, stroke or grab, stroke or grab very, very fast. Combine that with a brilliant massage and a soothing voice, and the path of least resistance is undebateable.
The part of my will that was still self-aware at the moment struggled to stop the natural instinct of stroking the thigh at hand. That's when I felt Mr. Nelson twitch in his lair, stretching up to see what all the fuzz was about.
Mr. Nelson: Cheers, mate. What's up?

I went: Nelson. Abort. Abort! False pretext, I repeat, false pretext! Abort!

She went: Can you turn on your back so I can do the neck proper?

Which translates into: Luke, I am your father.

My inner went: Nooooooooo!

I went: Quick! Do something painful!

She went: What?!

I went: Shoulders or sum'thin!

My inner went: Come on, Nelson, you owe me!

She did it, Mr. Nelson left the building, I turned around and she fixed my neck. Operation Hide the Hard-on completed, zero casualties. Although I might think twice about going back. It would have been easier if she had been 500 pound Hilda from Germany and without all those enticing fragrances. Some smells stimulate the privates, you know. And it naturally (very naturally) doesn't help putting my hand on your thigh either, unless you're actually trying to get it on.

When I visited Koppang my brother went to a comic book convention in Oslo where he met with Norwegian cartoonists such as Mads Eriksen a.k.a M and John Arne Sæterøy a.k.a Jason, both of whom I enjoy to read. My brother got me this:



Cheers bro! Apparently there was a party afterwards too where M's method of colouring was declared world-class. Brilliant. It's too bad M's only in Norwegian (as of today) as it could really take off among the millions of nerds world-wide, with numerous hidden references in every detail. Keep up the good work!

Denmark: mare genitials
Egypt: fucking at work
Germany: drive thru fast food kills filmstar
Netherlands: hardcore holland
Slovakia: pornstars meeting
Spain: woman "violinist looking" for work
Thailand: taxidermia flicks
United Arab Emirates: death anniversary of kurt cobain
United Kingdom: tits of fifteen
United States: male strippers cheat

All locations: a kilo is one thousand do you remember song

Dear Mr. God,
if you ever drop by to end the world on judgement day,
to cease the beating of my heart, the breath of all the billions of others,
and to destroy all will to life, and life itself, the trees and birds,
all the nice girls, and all the ones that are OK too,
the people who manufacture the Ferrari Formula 1 model,
and the Ferrari Formula 1 model,
all that I have done and could have been doing instead of burning up in flames or something,
I have one simple request if you don't mind;

Please save my mattress from your uncontrolled self-righteousness,
because I simply love this fucking piece of bedroom equipment. It's absolutely brilliant.
Please forward it to my scheduled destination in eternity. All right?

A recent slashdot article suggests that the height of the ceiling alters how you think:

When people are in a room with a high ceiling, they activate the idea of freedom. In a low-ceilinged room, they activate more constrained, confined concepts.' Either can be good. The concept of freedom promotes information processing that encourages greater variation in the kinds of thoughts one has, said Meyers-Levy, professor of marketing at the University of Minnesota. The concept of confinement promotes more detail-oriented processing.

This only confirms what I've always thought myself.
Back in the house I used to live in we had a very high ceiling since there was no loft above the livingroom. We also had tall, standing windows with a mountain view. This certainly improved my reading of Peter Wessel Zapffe's On the tragic, which in many ways is very universal and timeless, although quite pessimistic.

It's funny what girls do sometimes. She came along but not to go any further.
I guess I love them for this random hazard, who knows what pays off and what don't?
I'm here only to adore.
And even though I'm oft left behind, they never cease to amaze me.
I'll always learn more, but I'll never know enough. That should keep us on our toes.
Every moment and memory that I get to cherish
Say, my life alone beats any dream right through the boots!
And I dunno why I'm telling you this,
but when you've said A, you've got to do B, right?
Now, I could put on a William Blake recital, but I'm not going to.
Instead I'll get my shit together and focus. Life is too rich and it sure ain't over.

My sister had persuaded me to come and visit her this weekend, and although I wasn’t feeling over the top and had more writing to do than ever, I accepted the offer and bought a couple of tickets for Koppang, rural Norway. I think the line that got me going went something like: "I lived in Bergen for eight years and you only came to visit once." I don’t like Bergen. What can I say?

This trip added to my already brimful schedule, and I even had to squeeze in a visit to the local super market to buy a bag for my new digital camera, which took twice the amount of time I’d expected. Add to my search for the perfect bag my general ability to get lost in shopping malls and being unable to find a way out, or even just a way down from the forth floor, and you can imagine the amount of stress I went through. Naturally I got stuck on 4th. I looked at the other dead souls and consumers, and decided that if I would get trapped here forever like them, I’d jump over the fence and fall down to first. If I didn’t make it out alive, at least I’d go out in style.

On Thursday I stayed up late at work to get things finished so that I could get home early on Friday to catch the train. When I got home Friday afternoon I discovered that I’d forgotten to pack anything, but instead of slitting my wrists I just packed whatever I could think of.
Among boxers and t-shirts I brought with me the digital cam, my 3.5kg laptop, headphones, three books of inspiration, notepad, pack of gum, kleenex, a shoehorn and my trusty mountain boots that were falling apart in the seams. I looked like a chain-smoking bastard child of a countryside junkie and a computer nerd.
This made me very upset. That, and the fact that it was five minutes left for my train to arrive, and I still hadn’t found the platform. I asked someone working there if they knew, and they referred me to the touchscreen computers that eventually referred me back to the staff. Finally I overheard that someone was going to catch the same train and I just followed them. Yippe-ki-yea, mother fucker.
I was so angry during the first two hours of the journey that I wrote out one and a half pen in pure anger.

At the time I was going to swap trains at the infamous hick-town of Hamar, I was feeling much better and sent some sarcastic remarks to a friend of mine from that area. Right next to the train station you had access to a Burger King, three special psychiatrists and an institute specializing in pain treatment.

After another hour and a half in front of a couple in love, who couldn't spare themselves the funny voices, I was finally there; the middle of nowhere.
I got out, met my sister and checked out the scenery. It was very foresty, or wooded, whichever you prefer. A couple of kids ran by on their bicycles. Statistically, one of them would end up unemployed and alcoholic. My spirit rose considerably.

My sister drove me all the way up to the secluded sanctuary, or retreat, as they call it. It was truly a trip down Memory Lane as scenes from my childhood, age nine, came to pass. We turned into the forest and after five minutes on the dirt road we reached a big, wooden gate with lanterns on either side....
"What have they got in there? King Kong?"
It hadn't changed much, though, things had just gone a bit smaller.
I was greeted by Mother Superior herself, along with the most darling little angel I'd seen in any such place. I easily subscribe to the unfounded myths of convent eroticism. She must have noticed, and quickly redrew, while my sister hugged me along to show me my room.

Let me tell you something; the meek really know how to live in style!
The only thing lacking in the room, which easily qualified to a class B hotel room, was a mini bar, but I guess such a thing would be hard to justify considering the Holy Sacrament. "'Tis the blood of Christ, Bourdaux. 'Tis the Body of Christ, Ritz." But then it didn't have a Bible either which I found quite confusing.
Apart from the typical and very springy bed, I had my own porch, a second bed, a working table, a resting chair and a little window overlooking the church bells. The window didn't have a suicide stopper, but that didn't worry me much, considering the room was practically halfway into the ground.

I had a look at the homemade brochure lying on the table.
Fire exits? Check. Fire extinguishers? Check. Toilet roll? Check. Mini bar? Nope. Ashtray? Never heard of it.
Apparently, Christianity is not all about booze and cigarettes after all, but they do appreciate a good, healthy fire once in a while.
The brochure said: "Welcome. Your stay here is about Jesus."
Sorry? I just came to see my sister. Yeah, she invited me for the weekend, and-
It went on: "And he's right here among us!"
OH Shit! I took a look out into the forest as the evening light faded, mere silhouettes towards the general pitch black oblivion, and a cold shudder ran down my spine. There was a 2000 year old dead guy walking about somewhere out there...
I wouldn't have come if my sister had told me. So typical of her! Always leaving out the crucial bit of information. Like when I met the Christian cat called Stig-Inge they had chasing mice there. My sister went: "Oh, there's Stig-Inge. There he is. He's so pretty. Real nice and cuddly. And so friendl-NO! DON'T TOUCH HIM!"
"What?"
"He got AIDS."

After a humble soul search I found that I was hungry, and my sister insisted on making me some fried eggs and leftovers, which I didn't make an effort to object. In the meanwhile I was left in a cramped room with some of her co-workers, a properly wed couple with a little toddler to keep 'em together.
"Have you been here often in the weekends?"
"No, I usually go to normal places."
They quickly left after that, a bit rude of them, but I guess they had to get up early.

Later in the evening we went for a walk, which is a natural pastime in any forest you may go to. My sister showed me the new and impressive additions to the growing complex, including a beautiful forest chapel, a football court and two pigs who clearly didn't like me or the way I smelled.
Then we almost tripped over a bunny rabbit that was sleeping on the ground. In the middle of the ground. In the middle of the open area between whatever houses and objects that constituted very open ground. I put out a hand to see whether it was actually alive, and to my amazement it still was. I looked into the skies, then to the forest surrounding the area, then to the rest of the world in general that seemed very threatening to me if it had been that I was some such small animal like, say, a bunny rabbit, and back to the rabbit again. Nothing.
The rabbit was clearly suicidal.
I tried to hush it under a bush for cover, to do something if anything, but it made an effort to ignore me. I eventually gave up on it.
It was bound to meet Jesus sooner or later.

It got time for bed, I bid my goodnight and got indoors. I sealed the doors and the windows, just in case. When I'd brushed my teeth and done all the bedtime hassle, and was ready to sleep, I finally discovered how quiet the world was.
It was deafening. I couldn't hear myself think. I felt my head was going to explode.
But what's worse was the darkness. It was pitch black. It was so dark black dark around me where I was lying that a black hole would blush. I kept hurting my eyes against the pillows 'cause I had forgotten to close them.
Spooky.
I began to have small conversations with myself just to calm down enough to fall asleep. But then I got into an argument that soon turned into a full-scale pillow fight! Fucking bastard! I was trying to get some sleep here!
I declared the bed Switzerland and turned my back to it, with the faint hope that the parties involved would either stick to the peace agreement or execute the silence treatment. However, it didn't take long until I was back on the defense again. This time I had the bed sheets all over myself, with my head squeezed real hard into the pillow until I could hardly breathe. I gasped for air, sweat pouring from my face and my back, but to no avail. I was so exhausted I fell asleep.

Despite my fears I hadn’t been awakened in the morning by church bells or special ceremonies of any kind, and with some light clothing on I waltzed over to the NECTA Colibri coffee machine standing in the hallway. It made enough noise to stir up the devil. Slurping the black brew on my way back to my room to get some cigarettes rolled and ready, I was caught up by a bunch of mad staring eyes. It was a painted poster by some smackhead called Margaret Keane (see post below). The poster looked back at me. It totally freaked me out.
My sister eventually joined me outside for a cup of tea while I smoked cigarettes with growing expectations for breakfast. When we got into the kitchen I was greeted with sarcastic remarks about having slept too long. Why, I’d like to see them get up before noon after a riot night in a hotelroom that was clearly haunted and had no trace of alcohol whatsoever.

This was our day, and my sister’s weekend off, so we managed to slip out of everyone’s view and have a nice walk in the forest by ourselves. It was good to get out into fresh, untouched nature again, although I went from sweating rigourisly to shuddering of cold and back to sweating again.
They’d told me this was bear country, and that wolves were known to stalk the area, so naturally I had brought my digital camera in case I could get a shot at Grizzly Man 2. Being a completely new camera I was kind of over-protective and we had to stop several times along the way to wait for me to put it down or pack it up again. The freakin’ bears would just have to wait.
We didn’t see any, although I got some nice shots of some elk tracks.

The following day we saw a wild hare that was on its way to change to summer paint. But then a stomach bug hit my sister and rendered her completely useless, and I was left to pack my bags and get ready to leave. It was about time for me to get on home anyway. The hours on the train were highly uneventful, as I dozed off in a sort of comatose sleep, only to be awakened by a couple of teenage girls arguing about the geographical whereabouts of Great Britain. One of the girls insisted it was close to Canada, or even Alaska. When I got on the 2nd train, eager for a cigarette - everything's non-smoking these days - the three places around me were hijacked by retired people on their way home from a holiday.
"Is this seat taken? Is it taken? Hey, you! Is this seat taken?"
"Can you see anyone sitting there? No? So sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up!"

At half-past ten pm I was back home in the city of sin, refreshed and saturated with life, and I was glad that my sister had made me take this oppurtunity to get a swing at countryside life. I can honestly picture myself staying there for another week to just be on my own and get some proper writing done, but I had more pressing matters waiting for me at home. It was really good to see my sister though. Don't get me wrong. I’m just not going to Bergen.

This weekend I visited my sister where she works (see post above), in the mid east of rural Norway. Here are eight random pics from the trip:


My room mate


My sister having breakfast


A future breakfast
Mmmmm... bacon...


The view from my window
Luckily, they didn't ring that bell during my stay


Family Portrait by Margaret Keane
Now, I don't know about you, but if you ask me that's one happy family right there. I mean, just look at their pupils.. Margaret Keane was on something when she painted this... And why are they looking at us like that? What are they staring at? Use the comments for suggestions.


Coltsfoot
Close-up photography of various items is always a hit


This is what they want to sell to the Japanese
Wild, bold and beautiful Norse nature. Not too shabby, eh?


Very well hung, indeed

I'll update with a story later on, there's too much to do at the moment.

The latest issue of Truckin' includes a depressing monologue by yours truly to which you all know the preliminary continuation to, in my post called The most beautiful girl in Oslo. Oh, and there are some other writers too, of course. Probably better than the self-obsessed stuff I sent in. Enjoy!


60 Hours in Amsterdam, Part I by Paul McGuire
I was worried that the Air France ticket agent in Nice was going to send my bags to Paris. He kept asking me if I was going to Paris and I responded with "Amsterdam" everytime he asked...

Stuck in Monte Carlo by Otis Dart
It was actually the sea that I had stepped out on the balcony to see. I'd only been on the ground in Monte Carlo for a few hours. The moment I crashed into my room at the brand new Monte Carlo Bay Resort, I'd fallen into the most comfortable bed in the world...

Emilio Estevez Loses His Tooth by BTreotch
Four minutes earlier, Emilio Estevez was beating his kid-brother Carlos while he was hog tied and strapped to the top rail of their swing set with cheap-itchy yellow rope...

Confessions of a Man by Sigg3
I should have asked her for a date. Any date at all. 4th of March, 6th of April, didn't really matter. As long as we could go and have a dinner, or see a movie or something. It's not like I'm craving a relationship, I've got too much to do already, but it stung inside of me knowing that I'd already lost a chance. A chance. Singular term. There could be more coming...

A Grand Day Out by Susan Bently
On the other side of the road sat this German guy's car with a huge dent on the bonnet and his family sitting in the car, wife and children looking wide-eyed and pale. The bleeding carcass of a moose lay next to the car, dark patches of blood over the centerline...

City of Sins by Clay Champlin
People head to Las Vegas for two reasons: salvation or condemnation. Those looking to be saved from their mundane Midwestern lives bask in the perpetual glow of the strip or gawk skyward at downtown's Freemont street experience...


Poker pro-blogger and Tao master mr. Pauly McGuire writes:

This latest issue features an interesting mix of new and old writers in one of the strongest issues of the year. Susan Bently and Clay Champlin join the staff along with familiar faces such as Otis and everyone's favorite Norwegian word wanker Sigge. And finally, BTreotch is back with the second installment of his hilarious Emilio Estevez series. My contribution this month is about a short side trip to Amsterdam after a work assignment in Monte Carlo.

I ask that if you like these stories, then please do me and the rest of the writers a huge favor: Tell your friends about your favorite stories. It takes a few seconds to pass along Truckin'. I certainly appreciate your support. Feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.

Thanks to the writers who exposed their souls to the world and wrote for free. I'm lucky that you were willing to take that leap of faith with me. Thanks for inspiring me and for wasting your precious time with Truckin'. Until next time.

So read 'em, pass around the links and submit stories if you've got any!

Today is the day! After several months of pure, agonizing boredom the Pure Pwnage crew is releasing Season 2, Episode 2 of the ongoing adventures of Jeremy (teh_pwnerer), Doug (fps doug), Kyle, Anastasia and the Masterer.

Pure pwnage is quite an internet phenomenon today, with lots of gatherings, fans and followers. I have all the episodes myself, and I can't wait to see what they're up to now. Since Season 1 episode 12, I've seen all the interviews Jeremy and Kyle has been to, to try and get a grip of what's to come. If you haven't seen Pure pwnage, it started as a docu/drama internet show for gamers and evolved into an elaborate plot about gaming, headshots, love and world control. All the episodes are free for everyone to download and distribute (and they still make a living out of it)! They write:

The tour is done and it's time to get ready for the web release! Season 2 episode 1 will be posted on Thursday May 3rd (time unknown). In the meantime check out the new extended episode 12 intro! (after the Tetris battle)

Link of the day: www.purepwnage.com
Since their servers will be all stressed out when it's released, I recommend finding a mirror near you in their forums. I expect they'll put up a link to the mirrors on the hour of release. In the meantime, I'll try not to get fired..

This infamous string of code is the D-DVD processing key for most movies released so far, published on the net by the AACS (Advanced Access Content System) a couple of days ago by mistake. It has stirred up quite a riot in the IT world.

09:F9:11:02:9D:74:E3:5B:D8:41:56:C5:63:56:88:C0

Apparently some very, very rich people in the entertainment industry are trying to suppress this line of code by nullifying the freedom of speech. I just thought I'd post it here too, to support the cause and add it to the growing list of pages that posts it. As one blogger puts it: "Let’s see if the people can win right to free speech against a hackable code."

Say my name three times like Candyman:
09:F9:11:02:9D:74:E3:5B:D8:41:56:C5:63:56:88:C0
09:F9:11:02:9D:74:E3:5B:D8:41:56:C5:63:56:88:C0
09:F9:11:02:9D:74:E3:5B:D8:41:56:C5:63:56:88:C0

See 09-f9-11-02-9d-74-e3-5b-d8-41-56-c5-63.com, the Slashdot article Censoring a number, the song by Dino Lightning and this userfriendly strip. Cheers.

Update 3rd of May 2007
With all the focus on the infamous hexadecimal, people may be ignoring a bigger weakness in the AACS armor that emerged two weeks ago. Hackers have figured out how to crack AACS in a way that cannot be defeated, even by revoking all keys in circulation. In addition, it has the potential to make future decryption even easier.

I bought a CD with Burroughs reading his own poetry called Spare Ass Annie. I can really recommend it even to those who are not familiar with his works. With hip beats in the background legendary William S. will blow your mind. The music's pretty good too. Here's one of my favourites from the 14 track disc.

Words of Advice for Young People
People often ask me if I have any words of advice for young people.
Well, here are a few simple admonitions for young and old.

Never interfere in a boy and girl fight.

Beware of whores who say they don't want money. The hell they don't. What they mean is they want more money. Much more.

If you're doing business with a religious son of a bitch, get it in writing.
His word isn't worth shit, not with the good Lord telling him how to fuck you on the deal.

Avoid fuckups. You all know the type. Anything they have anything to do with, no matter how good it sounds, turns into a disaster.

Do not offer sympathy to the mentally ill. Tell them firmly;
"I am not paid to listen to this drivel. You are a terminal fool."

Now some of you may encounter the devil's bargain if you get that far. Any old soul is worth saving at least to a priest, but not every soul is worth buying. So you can take the offer as a compliment. They charge the easy ones first, you know, like money, all the money there is. But who wants to be the richest guy in some cemetery? Not much to spend it on, eh, Gramps? Getting too old to cut the mustard. Have you forgotten something, Gramps? In order to feel something, you have to be there. You have to be eighteen. You're not eighteen, you are seventy-eight. Old fool sold his soul for a strap-on.

How about an honorable bargain? "You always wanted to become a doctor. Now's your chance. Why, you could have become a great healer and benefit humanity. What's wrong with that?" Just about everything. There are no honorable bargains involving exchange of qualitative merchandise like souls. Just quantitative merchandise like time and money. So piss off, Satan, and don't take me for dumber than I look. As an old junk pusher told me, "Watch whose money you pick up."

-- William S. Burroughs