It's New Year's Eve and everybody's supposed to want to start anew...

I say fine.

And our thoughts go to Ape, who fell down the stairs today.

Pictures!

Wanna know how I got these scars?

I have just been informed of the existence of smile-activated shutters on digital cameras. Cameras that, on demand, won't take the picture until the object smiles.

Tell me, is this common knowledge?

I don't know what to make of it. Of course, I love when people smile. I love happiness. I love taking pictures. And I, like tiny, love portraits.

What I don't love is this orthodox assumption that a portrait with a smile naturally is more sought-after than one without a smile. I, and I believe many with me, have always felt more or less anguished every time someone asks me to smile for a camera. Or asked to smile, no matter why. To then design a machine that refuses to accept me unless I alter my face into a predetermined shape is like spitting in my face. And that certainly won't make me smile.

I'm leaving the countryside first thing tomorrow.

So it all started when Moa the dachshund disappeared when mother and I were out taking a walk. The sun was setting, it was cold as ice and the dog ran off. We tried to find her by following a track of blood through the woods. You see, Lisa - also known as The Stupid Dog - and her master had been out earlier that day, taking down two roe deer. On our way out we had met Lisa coming home from hunting. She had a lofty way of carrying her head and she willingly let Moa smell her bloody nose before running inside the house to rest. I later figured this had made Moa somewhat bitter, remembering the good old days when she was the one being out killing creatures with the help of father’s rifle. Now she was reduced to a simple pet, out strolling with unarmed women who very seldom left the imagined safety of the forest’s main road.

Now Moa was gone and we had for once left the road and were running around following red stains and paw prints on the frozen white ground... Read more!

Eventually we came to a dark wall of large pine branches that we forced our way through, only to reach a small black river around which the winter had not yet gotten its freezing claws. We had to turn back. It was getting dark and we didn’t want to risk not finding our way back once the blood track was hidden in darkness. Also, we didn’t know how far away her goal was – the spot where they had taken out the intestines of the deer. Moa the old dog was blindly hunting something already dead.

- If she dies out here, it’s your fault.
- I know.

We got on our way back, feeling extremely deprived. At home, we told the Hunter what had happened and that we feared for the dog’s life. He refused to help us, claiming that she would find her way home. I went to tell my baby brother the sad news.

- Oh, H. I have to tell you something (embracing him).
- What?
- It’s Moa. We lost her.
- What? How?
- She disappeared. There was a lot of blood…

After having failed at gaining sympathy from either man in the household, mother and I went back into the woods, this time in a car. Half way there, we met Moa. A now cold and fantastically fat little creature, walking towards our searchlight. And I was happy.

However, as I later celebrated her homecoming by making pizza, the damned dog started to puke. And what came out of her wretched little body was what I imagine vultures wouldn’t even consider for an entrée. From there on she was put in quarantine, in the enclosed space of the hallway. We put Lisa there as well, seeing as she was part guilty. Then we had our pizza.

As we were sitting upstairs a couple of hours later, watching a film, we noticed that the entire interior of the house had started to reek. First it was a sort of faint fart smell, which later that night grew in density and became like a fog of horror and rot (and we had been watching The Mist).

- God, I hate dogs!
- Don’t say that, she can’t help it.
- They’re only fun for a while. These last years are ugly. They grow old and eat too much and puke and fart and smell bad.

It was one thirty in the morning and I decided to go to bed. The stench made it impossible to watch another x-files episode anyway. I was just about to place my head on the pillow as it struck me the quarantined animals had no water available in their designated cell. So I headed downstairs, towards the smell. How I cursed my decision when I saw what Moa had done on the floor. There were half-digested bodyparts lying around and there was no way I could go to bed without cleaning it up. I know that dog. It would soon wake up and go and re-eat what it had just puked out. And judging from the size and texture of it, Moa would probably die if she seriously tried to digest it. So there I was, cursing stupid dogs, dead deer and weak stomachs, dressed in plastic bags and armed with a hundred tissues. Constantly gagging, I had to focus real hard on not throwing up myself, causing tears to come out from my eyes. I held in my hand what I took to be a roe deer liver, still stomach-warm and smeared in a dog’s brownish gastric acid.

I lost a piece of my soul that night. And I caught a glimpse of Hades.

I also watched the whole second part of Arrested Development season 3. All in all, it was a good day.

Jo men, snart kanske jag blir kulturminister, så att...

Jag påbörjar härmed min Ulf Lundellupptäcksresa. Längden på detta projekt är allra högst obestämd. ”Hitler intar Paris”-temat pågick ett drygt halvår. ”Jag älskar messmör”-temat höll ungefär två minuter. Mellan tummen och pekfingret alltså. Han är en man jag inte känner, en musik som gått mig förbi. Det är fattigt.

Så ock Youtubes Lundellutbud. Deezers obefintligt. Nåväl. En halvtimme in på mitt megasuperspännande projekt har jag funnit denna låt. Nådens år 1978 och Mister Ulf Lone Wolf Lundell har fått Miss Dancing Queen, Agnetha Fältskog att agera doaflicka:

I really hope it isn’t mothmen again.

Mulder: It could be… mothmen.

Me and my brother watched The Mothman Prophecies over a year ago and were greatly disappointed. I even shared. Yesterday night the pain of never having seen an actual image of a mothman was revived as we were watching the X-Files. H, being an intuitive little soul, blurted out the concept of “mothmen” on a whim as the plot developed. When Mulder later mentions mothmen as a possible label on the vicious creatures he encounters we draw our breaths and look at each other. Is it happening? Are we finally going to see mothmen? Alas, it turns out Mulder’s creatures, despite the glowing red eyes, are not mothmen, but some 450 year old Spanish conquistadors.

Thus the search goes on.

Because there is only so much ham and Emil one can take before turning to the internet

I do so love Christmas Day. There's a complete calm throughout the entire house. People are crawled up on the couch watching television they'd otherwise never watch. Or relaxing, "playing" with whatever they received the day before. There's no stress, and no need to wear a tie (even though I kinda like it) or an ironed shirt. Today is the day of chocolate and pyjamas. All day.

And for no other reason than that Leisha Hailey is easy to love (especially when she's looking semi-pretentious and plays with a unicorn), I thought I'd drop a few Uh Huh Her vids for you to enjoy. If you're not experiencing that relaxed feeling at least you can watch/listen and pretend you do.

Merry Odd Christmas

For Mos, the odd, the peculiar and the glory.

Enjoy the wise words of Da Vinci, Lily Tomlin, random academia, Oscar Wilde, fanfic writers, Richard O'Brien, Lucy Liu, Robert Ben Garant and Jimi Hendrix. Who said what, that shall be my little secret.

***

All our knowledge has its origins in our perceptions.

Everything popular is wrong.

Amongst a rough crowd of violent, perverted people, she felt utterly safe.

If I'm free, it's because I'm always running.

[Genovese] Insisting that history should be "primarily the story of who rides whom and how," the authors warn that social history is "steadily sinking into a neo-antiquarian swamp presided over by liberal ideologues" and denounce "the current fad of 'anthropology' in social history as a bourgeois swindle.

You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine.

I'm condemned by a society that demands success when all I can offer is failure!

The problem with winning the rat race is you're still a rat.

Everything I buy is vintage and smells funny. Maybe that's why I don't have a boyfriend.

Reality is nothing but a collective hunch.

Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.


And finally I shall leave you with one small piece of advice,"you look gayer when you're wrestlin'."

***

Ich bin eine originalen Mozartkugeln

Now show me yours.

Today we do not rape

...we rumble. Because that's what she would want.

Happy Birthday Ape

I was trying to find something original and/or mind-evoking for you. I failed. So I’m just going to go the opposite direction and present you this song by a band tiny found two years ago and that we stood on the brink of falling in love with. Then we swiftly realized that it was sort of a one-hit wonder EMO kind of band that we did not want to be associated with. So we dropped it, and never spoke of it again. Luckily, we had the Dresden Dolls to fall back on so there was no real pain involved. And no actual falling at all. Anyway, this isn’t about me and tiny. Today it’s about you. And all I want to say is that you are no one hit wonder emo kinda deal.

You are lasting and lovable.

And more importantly, I hope this was nice enough for me to get away with treating you like a dirty slave at New Year's.

no kittens, just sodomy

And an even better version of it,

Zoë Bell is damn difficult not to love.

From Crackle: Angel Of Death: Coming soon to Crackle

Plus blood is kinda nice on film.

Vandring i MeS

Idag här jag var på patrull i MeS luktade det underligt. Doften var mycket familjär, men jag kunde inte placera den.
Med tanke på vad som ligger på gatorna och det obefintliga avloppssytemen de har, kan ni tänka er innom vilken kategori doften ligger i.

Plötsligt slog det mig!

Mousse & Marts franska trappuppgång!
Det luktade precis så.

Förundrad och med ett löjligt leende på läpparna fortsatte jag halka runt i leran och skaka hand med små barn.

SNÖ

Det snöar i Långtbortistan nu.
Jag önskar jag hade ork att göra en ingående analys, men det finns ingen sådan tid i mitt liv. Eller, det gör det kanske... Men jag prioriterar att sova istället.

Jag har märkt att jag inte längre tycker att samma saker är roliga, eller vad som gör mig glad. Nu blir jag glad över att krypteringen fungerar, att skrivaren faktiskt skriver ut, att vi får leveranser med toner... jag har förvandlats till en kontorsapparatskvinna.
Fjantigt.

För övrigt kan jag berätta att jag snart kommer hem och förväntar mig att slippa alla former av kontorsapparater samt expenser.

Fridens.

MARRY ME!

Jag skriver väl mest för åtgången.

Det här är som bekant en av de mest extrema tidpunkterna på året. Precis som alla grejer som åberopar tradition och avkräver massglädje måste du känna dig fruktansvärt avvikande om du skulle misslyckas med att förnöjt deltaga i firandet av den förvisso numer inte särskilt centrerade tilldragelsen av Jesu födelse. Hursomhelst, och av exakt samma anledningar, blir du ju onekligen erbjuden en chans att höra till. Julen förser dig med tydliga riktlinjer och regler för att uppnå vad som har kommit att representera normalitet. Du får datum, du får färgkoder, du får specifika sånger, fraser, maträtter och andra mycket ofrånkomliga attribut att klamra dig fast vid. Och klamrar du dig inte fast, ja då har du mycket litet här att göra.

Själv älskar jag julen. JAG biter inte den hand som föder.

Nu har du chansen att göra nånting rätt i ditt liv för en gångs skull.

Jo, jag var hemma en stund och pratade med min mor. Hon är charmig och stundtals sylvass.

Sen har jag tänkt på det här med svenssons juliga utomhuspyntande. Av alla de slag. Folk som lägger ner hundratals eller tusentals kronor på lysdekorationer och medföljande elförbrukning. De köper en femton meter lång sladd med nio hundra små blå lampor som de hissar upp och snurar runt flaggstången. De spikar upp en kvadratmeterstor, tvådimensionell tomtefar av plast på husfasaden. Gärna med en släde och ett par renar i sällskap. De klär in en hel veranda med ett nätverk av olikfärgade ljuspunkter. Och så trädgårdstomtar! Allt det här gör de.

Man kan ju tro att liven därute i villagrupperingarna längs väg 288 är enformiga och slätstrukna. Men nej, där finns livslust. Där finns glöd, visioner och arbetande händer.

Det gör de ju så fantastiskt klart för mig.

I was wrong. Really, really wrong.

So, 90% or so of the population has latent herpes. I did not know that. I think I listened to much to schoolyard gossip when I was 11, and not enough in school (or wherever it is people learn about herpes).

Also, my hearing's no what it should be, so I thought I'd compile a short list of "What They Said & What I Heard":

Mjälte- Hjälte

Corpus- Korvbuss

Keep on chewing- I Want You, Owen.

Something beautiful (part 1 of 3):

On an end note, I'm extremely happy to announce I've signed a contract for a room! On Rackarberget. I get the key January 2d. I'm so excited! (but not touching myself.)

FEEL IT! Don't make me rumble you.

You wanna feel, huh?

I wanted a visual and auditory hug last night. Therefore I watched the one movie that will always, always make that happen. Today I thought I'd share two versions of one of the many classical songs from it.

First version is the original stage version where Pat Quinn (Magenta) sings the opening song.


This is a beautiful and acoustic version by Richard O'Brien.


And finally. How can one man be so much more than man or woman? How can one human being be so much more than the rest of us? And he's not even a lesbian. You're allowed to cry when watching it.


Can you feel it?

jo jag sa en flaska RENAT, tack

I love how deezer provides me with the possibility of having a soundtrack to a post. Of course, now I would want to fill this space with something to go with the theme song. Thus, I have a plea:

God, can I please give birth to the next Baby Jesus? I’ll be a good vessel. I’ll probably even stop drinking. And you’ll be the potent life-giving and ever-lethal father. Do your thing, and I promise I won’t be clingy. I need this! Anyway. I think you can put him down already at sixteen. These days, kids grow up so fast. And I hate the thought of having to be a mother for the rest of my life, however long you’re planning on letting me live.

Love,
Your humble servant, the wannabe Holy Mother and Whore of God

PS. Millennial update: Virginity is obsolete. And STD is a myth.

Andy Richter Controls My Universe

Sometimes entertainment is spot on. Sometimes you fall so easily in adoration of fictional worlds.



Andy Richter Controls the Universe is pure televisional bliss.

The Dictionary of Odd part 2

rumble (verb)
: [simplified] rape without penetration

Also you're all invited to come play on, "The Dictionary of Odd".

Fighting mainstream in built up areas

At the central station, last Wednesday...

t: It’s so funny, walking around in crowds. I swear, nine out of ten people I see in the street could be you.
M: That was not a compliment.
t: What? It’s not something bad. It’s the way you dress!
M: I hate you.

Oh, holy bodily anguish.

Most of Ape's was fake.

Most of Marty's were boobs.

men alla kallar mig farsan

Life is good. Mira entered it. Upon which passion, reverence and attraction followed. I'm the distant groupie. I'm the never-jaded fan. I'm the full of joy listener, the humble spectator. I'm the one who never once saw her smile.

And I didn't need her to.

Prop 8 The Musical

Because it never rains, it pours posts.

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die

A little poetry perhaps?

I've been reading some poetry. It really does fascinate me. Especially the hunt for beauty and that poem that will click with you. Most of the time poetry is just words strung together, sometimes though, sometimes it is so much more. It can be your entire world in a few stances. It can be something that feels so right you forget to breath a little. I like those times, but I also like the hunt for those times.

I think I'll have to go down to the library tomorrow and read a some poetry. For now I will leave you with a poem that does tickle me, by E.E. Cummings:

i like my body when it is with your

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric furr, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh....And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

Ja eller...?

Jag läste nyss nått så underhållande om Stenbockar att jag måste dela mig mig. Dock tror jag att jag även måste byta stjärntecken nu.

En stenbock skulle aldrig riskera att sticka ut från mängden eller, gud förbjude, göra bort sig. Hon håller sig inom ramarna för vad som är gångbart och korrekt.

Elegans och måttfullhet är hennes signum!