New site, new style, new stuff.

As you may have notice I’m not really posting here anymore. That’s ’cause I’m over at yoghurtspasm.com nowadays, blogging up a storm. Or some such. Feel free to check it out. It’s nice and bright.

Pucker up.

The game Lips. Holy Jumpin’s Jesus has that piece of digital entertainment given me pain the past couple of days. It’s a rather girly karaoke game containing tracks of a popish nature. Which I have nothing against. Too each his own, and so forth.

What annoys the hell out of me is the little snippet of music (and I use the term so loosely here that I dare say it has lost all of its damn meaning) that plays between the bouts of singsong. It’s monotonous. Not just monotonous, but short. Shorter than the average sneeze. Without the joy of neurologically resembling an orgasm, or so the urban legend goes. Anyhoo. A couple of thumps of bass and then the thing starts over. Ad infinitum. Was it too expensive to extend the length of this turd to a whopping 10 seconds? Let’s say, the duration of a protracted yawn.

Breath in, shape your mouth and exhale a little ditty. Whatever comes to mind, no longer than 3 seconds. Record it and play it back to yourself on a loop for about 2 minutes, with 3 minute intervals, for the next 10 of your waking hours. At the end you’ll be jamming your housekeys into both ears. A pierced eardrum or two being a small price to pay in order to escape such an auditory hell.

Sidenote:
A little bit edgy today. No coffee in the mornings here,  badly missing my sweet cup of Swedish java. And my sunny vacation time is drawing to a close. How are you?

Michael Jackson, and the bullshit that followed.

So Michael Jackson died. My reaction to this is one that swings like a damn pendulum between utter apathy and surprise. I’m not surprised by the actual death, mind you, but by other people’s reaction to it. Yes, he did write some snappy pop tune in his day. No doubt about that. But he also molested children. That’s right. He was a fucking pedo. I think there’s little doubt about that anymore.

Him being acquitted equates to very little for me in this case. Just like the OJ Simpson trial, Michael Jackson’s two highly publicized trials only proved that a rich person can get away with anything in Los Angeles. It also helps your case if you are insanely famous. And that you would be raped, murdered and then raped again within 10 minutes of your incarceration. Who could pass up the chance to rape the King of Pop? I know I couldn’t.

My tone is harsh and brutal. The memories the kids have of the King of Pop placing their genitals in his mouth is probably a whole hell of alot more harsh and brutal, on top of being disturbing beyond all belief. The only way MJ could become any more disgusting and creepy would be if he returned from beyond the grave as some sort of unstoppable child-molesting zombie. Let’s hope the kids can find the magical pendant until then.

The social convention to celebrate someone when they’ve died no matter what they did in life is one I cannot fully understand. Let’s just be honest. Which is worse: being remembered as a troubled yet brilliant man with personal issues, or a two-dimensional character dancing on a stage in glittery pants? On a personal note – I’d rather be remembered as the asshole I was than some magical nymph-like creature that spread good will and tidings to all the world’s people while maintaining a killer bod which smelled of chamomile and thyme. Bullshit seems to be rampant in this area. Prune it just a little, please.

From Cyprus with Love.

While out driving a hot summer’s day on the mediterranean island (and country) of Cyprus I started craving something cool and quenching. As one is inclined to do. What better than a carbonated beverage of some sort and the tastiest of tasty ice creams? Nothing, that’s what, my good fellow – Is my answer to that self-posed question.

Ponder this scenario. We pull over at a camping ground/cafeteria/grilling-zone/national park information area. Bounding out of the cars, me and my girlfriend and her family, immediately zoom in on a small kiosk offering such delights as mentioned above. I don’t trust anyone who does not enjoy a delicious piece of iced cream. And I was pleasantly surprised to find that my in-laws, through my beloved common law wife, were also hungering for such a snack. This could be the start of a beautiful relationship, by proxy.

Jump to approximately three minutes later when everyone had purchased their guilty pleasures of choice and moved on to the picnic-tables to commence with the consumption. The children were snacking, the adults were guffawing, the flies buzzing and I was in for an unpleasant surprise. I had picked what seemed like the ultimate combination. A Kit Kat ice cream. As I devour both Kit Kat and ice cream with great relish the thought of these two in sequence almost blew my fucking mind. I shit you not! Or maybe just a little.

Unwrapping the paper quicker than a speed freak on uppers during an early Christmas morning I soon gazed upon it. The biggest lie in marketing since X-ray spectacles.

This my friends is not a “Kit Kat Ice Cream”. What it is however is a God damn Kit Kat mushed into some vanilla ice cream. Now I may have been the only one thinking there would be some amalgamation between the two. It would seem logical. To put it another way: Why in holy hell didn’t they mix them? Two things residing beside one another does not constitute a fusion of deliciously huge proportions. Like I said, this is just a single piece of Kit Kat jammed into an otherwise mediocre ice cream.

Shitty and disappointing, would be my conclusion. Thanks for ruining my day Nestlé, you confectionary whores.

Facebook, and the amazing destruction of images.

I’ve been uploading some of my Photoshop/Illustrator work to Facebook lately. I find it to be the most efficient way to get people I know to see the stuff I’ve fashioned together, using only my inferior skills and less than acute sense of style. Getting people to pop on over to a blog every time I leave another brain dropping is not exactly easy. By plopping these things into an album on the FB (that’s what the cool kids are calling it, the FB. Or so I have been informed) I’m sort of forcing them to notice it. They can’t not see it. Cruel, I know.

Facebook does not seem to appreciate my artistic endeavors and chooses to utterly obliterate the image quality. Escalating what would have been a mild assault on the visual senses into a full scale ocular genocide. Is it not enough that I’m hampered by the cruel luck of the genetic draw? I have to get repeatedly molested by Facebook as well? Feast your eyes on this digital atrocity.

Probably not my best work ever.

Now, to some this might not seem like such an intrusive reduction in image quality. “Hey, that’s only slightly more artifacts.” a person might say. That person also doesn’t notice any difference between SD and HD television and will be wondering what all the hubbub is about. He is also 57 years old, loves sweater-vests and owns the collected works of Tom Clancy. This person needs to leave the room immediately.

The reason for the re-compression is in all likelihood storage space. Facebook deals with millions upon millions of photos after all. That is a lot of data and jiggabits and hardspace disks and whatnot. And how much larger is the already compressed “50% quality JPEG” file than its Facebook counterpart? The answer: about 8% smaller. Bare in mind this image consists of three colours. Facebook’s re-compression can’t handle the colour red? Seriously? I could understand if there was some gradient effect tripping up the algorithm here, but these are three clearly separated colours. Would I have crashed the servers with this image if it happened to be some blue in there? Should I stick to cubist black & white pictures?

I can only imagine what other optical horrors FB has in store.

Check out a reasonably well compressed version of the actual image over in the Flickr-stream to the right, or here.

A booger of a thought.

Self-righteousness is a swelling and bloating feeling I’m sensing in this social body I occupy. It’s pouring out of all corners and viciously attacking me from all angles imaginable. It’s not just oozing out of the regular go-to-places from which I’ve come to except this vile sense of self. Instead of the figurative smelly armpits of this global community I’m catching a whiff coming from, I don’t know, the ears or something. Can ears stink?

Christian people are easy targets these days. Especially in the secular haven of Scandinavia. I can literally (and hopefully)  go days without ever running into a person of the religious persuasion. What I cannot do however is avoid encountering the occasional smug cretin with their head lodged firmly and deeply up their own asshole. Oh, he may be a self-professed atheist, animal rights activist, fair trade-advocate. But he’s still incapable of rational thought and introspection. For instance; You see – he’s not an atheist because he’s come to the rational conclusion of a well deliberated internal argument. He’s a non-believer because he has been told that religious people are dumb and he’s certainly not dumb. He’s smart, his momma told him so, although all factual evidence points to the former. So in a seriously convoluted way, the only “logical” path to take is that of atheism. Not agnosticism by the way, that’s for pussies.

The same goes for faux-vegans, who don’t eat meat because people who do are immoral and inferior to them. Pseudo-eco warriors who only really care about the bike path outside their condo. Wannabe-feminists who join up because they hate men. Impostors shouting “support the troops!” while actively obstructing increased pay and benefits for service men/women.  Fake freedom of speech supporters who want to stop others from expressing offensive ideas. And anyone else who dons the mantel of righteousness to simply feel better about themselves. You can only truly know something if you actually believe in it. Answering the question: “Why do you believe?” with something akin to: “‘Cause!” or “It makes me feel good about myself.” are not viable options bucko.

Pointing fingers at people and proclaiming your superiority feels good sometimes. Damn good. Just remember to pull that sucker out of your nose first. It’s flu season you know.

Interestingly Outdated Idioms.

The connection between the heart icon and the soul gives off strange connotations these days. Ancient peoples believed that the heart was the seat of the human mind. Today it’s pretty much been whittled down to symbolising emotions of a romantic nature. We know that romantic feelings (which we hold so dear) do not reside in any bodily organ. Below the neck or above the waist, anyway. This outdated symbolism lives on as it’s rather quaint and charming. My Romantic Heart. If people once thought these things to be true, what other human conditions must they have believed to be housed in our various body parts?

– My Hedonistic Liver.

– My Platonic Pancreas.

– My Curious Appendix.

– My Impatient, But Curiously Resilient, Digestive System.

– My Ululating Ulceration.

Do any of these make less sense than the idea that romantic notions reside in the organ that pumps oxygen to our cells? It’s romantic, yes, but we could surely come up with something more modern and apt? Metaphors practically grow on trees. Come on poets, don’t just rest on your predecessor’s laurels. Get out there and romanticize post-modernity!

Maybe it just doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. Like romance, it has nothing to do with reason.

The Power of Imagination.

The economy does not actually exist. I know what you might be thinking now. “Hey, how deep of a hit did you just take from your opium bong? You godless hippie.” The short answer is: not that deep. The long answer is: An economy is just an agreed upon system of values and trade rules. It is no more set in stone than any other idea, and can be re-arranged or fundamentally revised any time we feel like it.

I know it seems as if economic systems, such as our pseudo-capitalist one, are quite real. As real as the buildings that house all of the institutions that prop up this concept. But it really isn’t. It’s “simply” a very elaborate system we have concocted in order to keep people producing goods and services that in the end benefit most of us. Motivated by greed. Punished by hunger. I will leave any further moral values and my own Utopian hopes out of it.

If this current model of incentives and punishment isn’t getting the job done let’s change it. Fine tune it to work better. Improve the social safety net for workers. Tax the rich bankers a little higher. Make sure stock trading is better regulated. Even out the peaks and valleys. We also have the short term option: Keep on buying stuff, you dumb shits.

A recession happens when people think a recession will happen. They stop buying and start saving. Industrialists stop producing the things that aren’t being bought anymore. The same people who stopped buying get fired and continue not buying (now for a different reason, lack of funds) and the downward spiral worsens. Do you want to keep your job? You want your friends to keep their jobs? Stop stuffing your mattress full of imaginary wealth printed on paper and purchase things that might be useful. Either sneakers with lights in the heals or a shotgun for fending off the mutants when this economic crisis hits apocalyptic proportions.

You think I am over-simplifying a very complex issue? Yes, I might be. Bare in mind though that economist’s seemingly elaborate hypotheses are not any more accurate. If these Oracles of Wall Street and Captains of Industry had any clue what pattern the market follows (if any) they’d be able to fix it. Instead they’re just throwing anything they can think of at the problem and seeing what sticks. So far, nothing is.

A system no-one understands isn’t a system, it’s chaos. So kick back, grab a beer you’ve just brewed in your own toilet and enjoy watching as these granite monoliths of capitalism crumble. Like that pension you had saved away. It’s much more fun watching something come crashing down. At least now you are not alone, standing in the rubble.

Also:

There cums the neighbourhood.

The other night me and the girlfriend were reliving shared but separate childhood memories by re-watching The Neverending Story. It was a spur of the moment type thing, so we got started rather late. As we were approaching the half-way mark we found ourselves getting the mid-night giggles. That stage of tiredness when everything seems rather funny. We were chatting in hushed and clipped tones and having a laugh at how poorly some of the elements in the movie had aged.

During this most pleasant of times we get interrupted by a loud banging on the wall followed by an equally loud yet muffled voice.

– “I’m actually trying to sleep!”

Or something to that effect came pouring through the wall we share with this apparently grumpy denizen. Most rude. That I had been forced to overhear said person have loud and obnoxious mid-day sex just a few days prior is of no concern. Apparently. Clamorous Afternoon Boinking – Perfectly acceptable. Average Nightly Conversation – Horrendous.

We weren’t having a rip-roaring booming time, with rowdy cheers and boisterous applauds. The volume was in every respect, reasonable. A bit too reasonable even. Had it sounded like twenty-odd burly men performing heavy construction in the middle of an ongoing party as a gaggle of geese were set ablaze for the party crowd’s amusement I should think my keen and sharp neighbour would have hesitated before bothering me with information on his sleeping habits. The silly git.

The addition of the word “actually” in his improvised and analog cross-domicile radio theatre opens up a whole other level of  possible interpretation. Did he actually expect us to know that his and our headboards were adjacent? What then must be his point with such rambunctious three o’clock sex? I dare not speculate any further into such perverted goings-on that must be…going on.

I quite often over-complicate things. He’s probably just a self-centered asshole. Which is an interesting idea, in and off itself.

A much smarter ape.

Humans kick ass. That is the one universal truth that we can all learn from our short little moment on this earth. The great lesson is not the beauty of nature, the delusions of God’s greatness or any other man-made construct, other than this. We, as a species, need not fear any other animal. Given enough time we will figure out its weakness, kill and eat it. Or turn its carcass into some amusing product to help make our lives more interesting.

Humans beings are dumb, selfish, evil, gluttonous, self-involved, murderous, vile and utterly irrational most of the time. I take no issue with this view  of the human race. What needs to be considered however is that all of these negative attributes we possess are concepts we have created. Any animal, even the little fuzzy ones we find cute, are much worse than the most horrid person. By our standards.

Show me a walrus that can play the violin or a chipmunk that has deeply theorized on its own existence and I might change my tune. Until then I’ll enjoy being a dirty stinking ape, of the more clever variety.

We are the crowning achievement of creation. As of yet.

Sexually Transmitted Vengeance.

Finally, we have our revenge.* Nobody messes with humans. Especially not our junk. When we were asleep, in the jungle. And in no way molesting monkeys of any sort. So you hear that you damn dirty apes? We’re coming to get ya! It is only a matter of time before we perfect the virus. Don’t try and disguise yourselves by wearing hats and monocles, as amusing as that may be. We can tell one bipedal primate from another. Most of the time. Unless they’re some kind of minority or something.

*It is commonly believed that humans originally contracted HIV from monkeys. How is yet unknown, but sources inside of my head tell me that it happened through inappropriate sexual contact.

Pretend Heroism.

Am I the only one getting seriously tired of being told that athletes are heroes? Why am I constantly being reminded through the media and other people that I should take pause and admire these heroic feats of make believe?

Wow! He jumped over a rather high horizontal stick using nothing but his own two legs and a really silly technique? Did he do it while wearing a colourful but impractical hat? Nothing’s athletically awe inspiring unless ridiculous headgear is a involved. If you ask me.

What are our values?  Actual heroes put themselves at great personal risk in order to help others. A true hero might even face certain death to save another life. They do not retire at 40 and putter around strip clubs in Monaco, doing coke off of some skank’s snatch. Live the dream man, but don’t expect me to worship you for it.

Being the best at something non-sensical can be interesting, I’ll give you that. For instance – having the ability to masturbate over twenty times during the little drive to work is as impressive as it is daring. That type of stamina and speed and reckless disregard for traffic safety is outstanding. A hero however, you are not. Just sticky and exhausted.

Chasing a leather sphere around a field is as abhorrent a behaviour as many others frowned upon by society. (see example mentioned above) Add to this: Shimmying into a little outfit and squat-thrusting for hours in the name of fun and the entire thing seems borderline psychotic. Cheering them on feels almost cruel in such a context.

I understand why the media are farting out praises for these plastic heroes. There’s a profit to be made and airtime to be filled. Why in the world other people, many of whom could not care less about actual physical exercise, go on and on about sports I shall never understand.

Now, the joy of watching a sports injury unfold I can comprehend. Thank God these sportsmen aren’t discouraged by the fact that the laws of physics are working against them. Where would franchises like “World’s Worst Whatever” be? Out of business, that’s where. And in this economy we need all the profitable ventures we can get.

So gimme a jingle when the next NASCAR driver turns his torso into a modern work of art using nothing but the momentum of the vehicle. True heroes sacrifice their lives, after all. For my entertainment.

Say what?

I want to find interesting and unusual ways of phrasing myself. I strive towards it constantly and with all the determination I can muster. There is a form of yearning inside of me. A want, for something that differs from the regular modes of expression. To discover an intriguing little mountain path that leads me up into the winding caverns of the imagination. Byways that diverge and distract you for a while but that ultimately take you back down towards the main road. Of truth. Hopefully with a new appreciation for its many nuances.

My intention is to be someone’s weirdest conversation. The anecdote they retell at parties as an example of convoluted associations, strange wording and mind blowing entertainment value. And at the same time I wish to remain both truthful and honest. Unfortunately there appears to be no consistency of quality in any of my musings. Sometimes I have a way with words, at other times I simply have my way with them. Off-putting to some.

I’m perfectly fine with being alone for longer periods of time. It gives me the chance to reflect on things. A much needed inventory and reorganisation of the warehouse that is my mind. Aloneness also carries with it a sense of security and calm. One does not have to consider anything more than the thoughts that are racing through your head. Bouncing off of one another. Sparking new but partially mangled ideas. I suspect what inspires me to make such efforts at communicating is a quest for intimacy. A true feeling of belonging is what ties these periods of solitude together into something meaningful. The world is a wonderful place containing endless possibilities, with terrible consequences. Existence as a dimly lit carnival of extremes. Intimacy is what smooths over the jagged edges you might encounter in the dark. Verbiage is my entrance pass. Listen to it.