"The world we create is black and white"

That's from the Bad Religion song "The Gray Race" but I find it suiting when describing the way me and my dearly beloved furnish our appartment. I love it.

I took a tearfilled farewell from her today as she went home again after only two days here, but I have to work and she has to help her mother with the move so... We did get some things done though. We made up an inventory list of things we need in the kitchen and then checked what we already had. About half of the things were missing. The expensive half. Anyway, it was good fun as it always is preparing for us moving together, and tonight after she had left me and my mother went to a V.I.P. night at a furnishing store where we could buy at a 30% discount. I managed to tick off a few more things on the list.

I'm thinking of giving up this blogging shit. I've been against it since it first became a plague of our time and I'm not sure why I decided to sell my soul and start typing. It is a good way to practice my English and to let the few people who give a shit know what I'm doing. But I don't know...

Yesterday I went to the hospital to get my shot of vaccine against the swine flu and last night my arm started hurting really bad and then I got a fever. Well, I stayed home from work today so it wasn't a completely wasted effort.

Just a thought

All lifestyles are self-destructive, aren't they? I mean, they all lead up to death anyway.



And in the end, it's all about the sex, isn't it? If you don't believe that, you're both a winner and a loser at the same time.
Goodnight.

Bad Religion! Bad, bad religion!

"Guns don't kill people. Religion does." - Jesus

During these last two days I've broken my back approximately 19,5 times. Let's just say shipping all this shit involves a lot of heavy lifting. My hands are sore too, I've got blisters on my otherwise beautiful and unusable fingers. I'm not complaining though, it's good to actually do something, but the blisters are irritating because they render me even more unable to play my bass.

I just opened up the dictionary randomly and (it's true!) the first word I put my finger on was 'clitoris'. Not the worst thing to put your finger on, eh? (This time I almost used a smiley.)


Anyway, I don't really have anything witty to say today, I'm too tired from having worked eleven hours. It's usually a nice thing to do that and then come home because you feel extremely good and relaxed after working so hard, but today I fail at relaxing. I have to get up early tomorrow and work another twelve hours. Hooray for me... (That's a Bad Religion song by the way, check it OUT!)




I think I'll take the easy way out and let Bad Religion speak for me. I hate it when I feel stressed to write something. I'm not talking blog shit now, I'm talking about the text I'm working on. I haven't written in a few days and it's hard to get it going again when there's so much else to focus on. I'm not sure if I'm breaking any copyright restrictions by qouting an entire song here but I don't care. This is Bad Religion's 'Sometimes I Feel Like':



there's a spectre in the corner of an illustrated page
and a lonesome muted stripling with a rapt remedial gaze
the poverty of his language and the wealth of his emotion
bring him endless murky musings and unexpected frustration
angst and madness weave the fabric of his life
tomorrow might be better
but right now it feels like
#&%#"@$#!"&(*""%%75838769%("%56("5965&65"$"%423!(060_*"7534#
there's a panther wild and proud
behind the doors of a redolent cage
and an undeveloped intellect
filled with impotent and static rage
and don't think you're exempt
if you earn a good weekly wage
'cause your neighbor's going crazy
and insanity's contagious!
I know there's so much you want to say
but your tongue gets in the way
and sometimes it feels like
)"&*()"&$%#68%3*(48"&%)*&"%(65("$8%$#&3("5(&%
I know there's so much you want to say
and the tumbrel of your mind gets in the way
it's the same for everybody to degrees
we all get that foggy freeze
and sometimes it feels like
%&$#*%(&")""$%@*%)*&"%(65("$8%$#&3("5(&%)9%9"$868

The end of an epic

There's nothing boring about working when you have a purpose. I'm gonna work my ass off in the coming weeks but since the money will go to stuff and rent for my new apartment that I'll share with my dearly beloved I don't mind at all. I actually enjoy it. Especially now that we are closing in a couple of months because that means a lot of redistributing and shit, which in turn means that I spend my days on the loading dock, carrying boxes, packing and wrapping everything. Almost no contact with annoying costumers. Wonderful.



You might wonder why, if I dislike costumers so much, I took a job as a salesman. Good question. It was the job I got a little over two years ago and I've stayed, thinking all the time that I won't stay much longer. Well, you get stuck. The salary isn't too bad though. Now that I see the light at the end of the tunnel I kind of like these last weeks of money-milking monotony.



I didn't finish the last Dune novel last night but I did it this morning and it has been a truly marvellous journey through space and time. I've read all sixteen books that Frank Herbert, his son Brian, and Kevin J. Anderson have produced and I'm not only amazed by the story itself but also by the scope of it all. To create an entire thriving universe and keep it up through sixteen tomes is truly the work of great artists.



The other day on the train I overheard a stupid kid who said to his friend that Science Fiction and Fantasy novels aren't real literature. I turned around and asked him why. He said that it isn't good literature because the authors have made everything up and set it in worlds that they themselves created. I asked him how that differed from most other forms of literature and why it was a bad thing. Seeing there's no answer to that queation, he fell silent. Victory was MINE! (hated evil smiley)

A night of carnage

Fuck yeah! I love Sundays! Except when I'm working, but I didn't today and so it was a great day. I got a lot of shit done as well, I did some creative writing (if that's the correct term for what I'm doing, some people would probably call it something else), some reading and some serious reveling in Californication. A couple of sandwiches, a yoghurt, a cookie and my three favourite drinks (from left to right: coffee, whiskey and Swedish root beer) combined with Hank Moody's latest escapades made for a very pleasant afternoon.

After that my friend came over and we watched Saw V before we set off for the cinema and Saw IV. Gruesome. After a little over three hours of carnage, gore, pain and plenty of mangled, shredded, pressed, cut, sliced, shot, squeezed, stabbed and otherwise tortured human beings I came home and I felt... not nauseated but hungry for mince. So I ate a Russian pasty. Then I felt sick.

A weird, or should I say creepy, thing happened on the way to the cinema. In Sweden, the license plates on cars are made up of three letters followed by three digits. As we were driving we met a car with the letters SAW on the plates. Scary stuff.

I have to get up fairly early tomorrow and go to work so I'm gonna head off to bed and finish the last Dune novel, which I will have something to say about tomorrow (no spoils, I promise!).

Bathroom noises

I'm not worried about moving in together with my girlfriend because, as I've said, we have basically the same taste and ideas (although she's politically misinformed) and we almost never argue. There's only one thing that really worries me: bathroom noises. I don't know if it's a male thing or what, but I just can't take a dump if I know someone is on the other side of the door. I need privacy. Peace and quiet. And I need to know that no one can hear me make noises. The thing is I'm equipped with a rather gassy set of bowels and I find it quite uncomfortable when I realize someone has heard me when I exit the toilet. Especially at my girlfriend's house, her mom is always around it seems, and the place is not soundproof at all, so when I'm there I use the sound of the shower as cover, resulting in scorn from the mother that I shower too long.



Personally, I don't mind at all. I don't care about any sounds coming from the bathroom, whether they originate from my girlfriend, my friends or just anybody, and I've said so to her. She says she feels the same, especially considering me and my gassy system, but I can't forget what she said a while back when we first talked about it. She said that the moment you start farting in your partner's company is the moment romance dies. I don't mind her farting (as long as she doesn't do it when she's in my lap) but I don't want to be the cause of death of the romance between us. It's a real problem. I suppose we will see frequent use of my shower radio in the future.



I really like riding by bus. Bus drivers are usually amazing people. Driving the same routs every day while being nice to everyone is really something, and I always feel so safe when riding in a bus because, well, bus drivers are fucking good drivers. I simply enjoy it. The journeys also provide time to do some good shit. It's a two hour bus ride from my girlfriend to where I live and I use the time to listen to Disturbed while writing a couple of lousy poems. Quality time.

Just another shit blog

I'm happy as shellfish right now. Strange expression that, I wonder if crustaceans generally are happier than other species? Anyway, I'm happy because I've spent the day looking at furnishings together with my lovely girlfriend. One of the best things with planning a home together with her is that we have basically the same taste. We both want to decorate in black and white (although I had to give in to her demand to add another color or two, I'd like to have it all in black and white, just like an old movie) and we both want to mix modern stuff with 50s and 60s furniture. Good thing she doesn't want lace everywhere, I'd have gone mad in a week.

This is the lamp that we'd like in our living room, but it's expensive as hell so it's on our Christmas wish list (>insert a hated winking smiley<).

99% of all blogs are shit, which is a bit surprising because only about 80% of the bloggers are crappy people. I know I write a shit blog, but I do it mainly as an exercise in English. Instead of reading about completely uniteresting things such as fashion or some stupid brat's diet, I'd like to read an interesting blog for a change. Imagine a starving African kid blogging about the hardships of everyday life, or a Sudan child soldier writing about the latest atrocities. Those are blogs that would serve a purpose, open up a few shut eyes or turning around some turned away faces. Too bad something as incorporeal as the Internet is the property of the privileged.

Culture on prescription

I just did something I normally don't do. I watched the news. I usually don't do it because somehow it always spoils my day. It's the same with the morning newspaper. Sure it's educating and all that shit, but reading about the wars, killings and religious stupidities going on all over the globe at breakfast isn't my idea of a good morning. I like to read a book and at the moment I'm halfway through the last of the Dune novels, Brian Herbert's and Kevin J. Anderson's Sandworms of Dune. I imagine there will be a big hole to fill after I'm done with that epic tale.

Anyway, watching the news did just what I expected it would: annoy me and spoil an otherwise lovely evening with my girlfriend. The first two stories were about middle aged men buying sex from minors and the third was about a stupid idea that probably is necessary in this day and age. "Culture on prescription" is a new thing that Swedish politicians want to try to increase public health. Supposedly, getting a prescription for a visit at the theatre or the cinema is what sick people need. You would think that people should understand themselves that some quiet time reading a book or otherwise indulge in cultural activities is something that works positively on the human mind, because it has done so since we climbed down from the trees.

People of the western civilization are way too stressed and I can't understand why it has to be like that. I, for one, will never live such a stressful life that I cannot (as Offspring puts it) sit back in my favourite easy chair and put my feet up. I refuse.

Well watching the news didn't really spoil my evening. Nothing can do that when I'm in the same room as my dearly beloved. Or... wait, maybe. Her zapping over to MTV might actually do the trick. I have to stop this shit now before it kills both our minds. Hugging time!

Four hours in Hell

It's amazing how long four little hours can seem. I don't work a lot and trust me, I'm very happy with it. I'm one of those Sum 41 guys who can walk around the house unemployed for a year without feeling anything but utter freedom. Although of course, when the money runs out I reckon I'll regret not looking for work during all those months out of captivity. I'm not there yet though, I work enough to keep me going, but those four hours on Sundays are serious killers of my joie de vivre.

Let's just say I had a shitty day today. It's not really the work itself (selling sports equipment to half-wits and self-important rich dads of ice hockey playing brats while trying not to speak my mind but instead being nice to them) -- it's the tediousness of not having anything to do when there are no costumers in the store. Fuck cleaning up, I get enough of that at home.

I hope I won't have a lot of these days when I finally move out after New Year because one of the few things that have a remote possibility of turning my headache-induced bad days around is my mother's cooking, and from January on I won't even smell it.

You can tell that I'm having a bad day when even an episode of Californication doesn't hurl me into a good mood. Although, it was an episode I've watched five times during the last two weeks so that may be why -- still, every episode is a good oppurtunity to study the little desirable details of Hank Moody, my favourite fictitious American author.

Speaking of California, I just remembered something that makes me, if not overjoyed, then at least slightly merrier. I remember last year's West Coast Riot, a Punk Rock festival here in Gothenburg where I managed to be right at the front when favourite Punk Rock heroes Bad Religion played. It was a happy ten or so minutes until I got trampled over by the crème de la crème of Sweden's punk rockers. At least I got a good snapshot of Greg Graffin.

The elusive basics of the bass guitar

It's not easy being an analog guy in a digital world. That's what this blog's name is about if you haven't figured that out already. I hope you have, otherwise you're stupid - which wouldn't be a huge surprise, most people are these days. NOFX are right when they sing that the idiots are taking over. I mean, it wasn't just Bush, just look at kids today and tell me they're NOT stupid. You're lying!

Another thing I hate, not only because it makes me feel old, but because it's fucking annoying, is when you're out pubing or clubing and a bunch of seventeen- or eighteen-year-olds come in and demand the space and attention. Sometimes I find myself sitting in the bar with my pint (the much smaller, less tastier Swedish version of the pint that is) and just listening to their STUPID FUCKING EXCUSE FOR A CONVERSATION. Maybe that's a little bit unfair though, given that they're probably drunk as hell, but it's the same stupid conversations when I'm in, say, the mall or McDonald's (although I try my best at avoiding stepping inside the American embassy - I haven't been to McDonald's since August).

Over a year and a half ago I bought a bass guitar. I think the time has come to learn how to play it. It does look very nice in the corner down in my basement living room (think Foreman's basement, only modern and with a huge Street Fighter poster covering one wall), right next to my Super Nintendo console, but it's getting a bit dusty. The basics has eluded me so far, partly because I threw away the instructions-CD on the drunk when my bass-playing friend convinced me that I should learn it without any such newbie help, like he did. It took me a while to realize that he's not quite as tune-deaf as I am.

Anyway, so far I've only put together a few tunes of my own, very simple, and I use it just as relaxation. I tried to learn a couple of Offspring songs but that was too hard for me, at least now. That's why I've put "A booklet with Beatles songs for the bass" on my Christmas wish-list. If all goes well, by February I'll be Paul McCartneying your asses back to Hell. I'll let you know.

Christmas time

I got really fucking annoyed today. I'm still fucking annoyed. You see, for me Christmas is the most important time of year; it's the time for quiet thinking, family, and the only real oppurtunity to just sit back in your favourite easy chair beside the fireplace with a good book. The last two years I have been working up until the 23rd and then starting again on Boxing Day which isn't really my idea of a good Christmas. So this year I told my boss I wanted a couple of extra days off and I got them; I'm not working again until the 2nd of January. I was thrilled and I told my girlfriend this.

However, now she wants me to help her mother move during the days between Christmas and New Year. Crap. I mean, who the fuck moves at that time of year anyway? Well, I'm not doing it and now she's really pissed at me. My point is that I myself will be moving out at the beginning of January and therefore I'd like to spend the last days at home by actually being at home.

This morning I spent an hour in the tub and I started thinking about reincarnation, don't ask me why. I don't really believe in that shit but it would have been nice though, having the chance to be reborn. But I'd like to decide myself what I'd be born into because I wouldn't go for the best thing or person possible. Contrarywise my friends, I'd probably choose one of the worst. I'd like to be reborn as an American. No offense to you Kev. When I say American I mean Californian because that is my horrific ideal of a good life.

The upbringing would have been different, more slack I imagine, rendering me more mature at an earlier age. The weather would have been different too. Better. But not during Christmas; I like my Christmases to be cold and dark.

Just to prove how much I love Christmas, here is a picture of me from last Halloween, dressed as Santa Claus. I would put a smiley here. But I hate them.

First impression

Well they say that you only have one opportunity to make a first impression. Too bad...

A couple of months ago I decided I should quit smoking. Not that I've been a proper smoker or anything, truth be told I only smoked fags at parties (hmmm), and the occasional Billy Bong Thornton. But I decided it would be good for me to never smoke a cigarette again and so i quit. It took my brother (and a glass of Scotch) half an hour to make me realize a cigarette isn't so bad after all. I have no illusions.

Hell, I have a lot of illusions. They keep me going in this day and age when fashion and various shitty magazines try their best to kill the romantic haze in which men used to dwell.

I don't drink CocaCola anymore. I saw a documentary about a CocaCola factory in India pumping up the ground water and thereby causing a major dry-out for the farmers in the area. A felt nauseated and opened up a Pepsi instead. I have no illusions.

I just got back from my brother's place where I spent the weekend getting drunk, stupid and dressed up for Halloween. It was a good party indeed, but I won't put any smileys in the margin here, I hate smileys.

So much for first impressions. If anyone reads this I want you to know that I probably don't like you. Let's finish with a poem of sorts, just because it feels like a nice touch. Speaking of that, my girlfreind is waiting for me in my bed so I've got better things to do than blog.

Modern girl
For she is a modern girl, split in two:
one part the delicate, sweet and innocent --
there is a lost artist in there;
the other part cynical and tainted
created from sex and television,
sex at an early age (twelve), guided
by Cosmopolitan Magazine,
stupid realityshows and MTV;
it is the plague of today
that slowly kills romance;
to once have had a romantic view on life,
I am blinded, she is blindfolded
for she is a modern girl, split in two:
one part closed in, the lost artist, the romantic,
never to escape
the premature adolescent in a girl's voice
saying "yes" and never "no"
until it is too late and she is forever spoiled,
locking away the artist within,
facing, mouth wide open, the dread
of a cynical world;
for she is a modern girl.