SHÄDY ÄCRES

End of an era

2010-09-12T13:40:00.003+02:00

The collaborative blog project SHÄDY ÄCRES is now irrevocably ended. For those of you who understand Norwegian you can find my new blog here. For those of you who don't, learn't Norwegian already!

We love you all. Take good care of each other. We'll always have Finnmärck.

This is Ripley, last survivor of the Nostromo, signing off.

M.

This blog is so dead

2010-07-04T22:55:00.002+02:00

Here’s why: To begin with this was a joint project, and both Sara and I contributed. But Sara… well, she’s fickle. She was never as committed to the SHÄDY ÄCRES project as I was. After the first year she still posted a picture and a one-liner once in a while, but never with any regularity. Bah!

That of course gave her a certain superstar mystique, while I was more of an Overlook Hotel style caretaker here. Once in a while I would try to talk her into blogging, and she’d say things like: “It’s your blog now”, “I have nothing to write about” and “stop gnawing at my panties, you perv”. So I stopped trying.

So you see, I blame Sara. And of course you people. We never really had any readers, on an average day we got like 4 1/2 hits. Those of you who became regular customers here were classy, though. I’ll give you that. All two of you. Both "Stumpy" and "Bongface".

But I’m really sorry, I just don’t have the time anymore. I have three kids now (how the hell did that happen?), I constantly have to come up with new ways to get my hands on money. What am I going to write about? My job? I can’t, because of ethics and confidentiality issues. My family life? It’s really none of your business. Political stuff? I do that elsewhere now. Showcasing my art? Well, THAT’S not going anywhere so fuck THAT.

I still think some of the stuff I’ve written here is comedy gold. If you go back through our archives you’ll see what I mean, and if you don’t I’ll come to your house and steal all your spoons. But seriously, this was a super funny blog. Like millions of others, and yet different. We had the umlauts. We’ll always have the umlauts.

Listen, this is not moving in the direction I wanted. I was going to write an obituary style piece and then pull the plug here, but get a feeling I’m not ready to close up shop yet. Let’s see what happens. Maybe I get a visit from the magic blog fairy and start spewing genius blog posts out of my ass again, it could happen. Don’t hold your breath, though. You could die of asphyxiation.

See you in the funny papers.

WHAT? I have a blog????

2010-05-26T18:38:00.001+02:00

Why hasn't anyone told me this? I'm very disappointed in you people. And by "you people" I mean Belgians.

Bokstaver til Falken

2010-04-11T21:21:00.003+02:00

THE SHÄDY ÄCRES POEMS

2010-03-28T00:39:00.028+01:00

Mikkel Grüner

Sunrise on the shores of the Aegean
Come closer. Come see for yourself.
Guzzle the red wine and spit your olive pits directly into classical antiquity.
On the worn steps of the Academy, watch bearded philosophers argue
The shared origin of fire and water,

While far away on the yellow fields of Persia
Glass statues make perfect targets for Cretan slingers.
Nothing left of the Macedonian phalanx now, nothing but dust
And blue-eyed children scattered across the steppes of Asia.

Ivory for gold. Lydian dice for Lydian money. Slavery.
Let the children carry the laurels. Let the women carry the children.
Let the men carry their fathers’ spears.
Let the souls in Hades carry the head of Orpheus. Let Orpheus sing.

Let purple kites hover in stasis over the marble cliffs.
Watch in shock as the island kingdom Atlantis returns once more
From the deeps of the turquoise ocean, tenderly breaking the surface.
Witness the invention of democracy.

Midday on the road to Iolcus
Chiron: I am intrigued by the human ways.
Tell me Jason, in what way is the work of the artist different
From any other human activity?
And how does art differ from any other human product?

Jason: Master, it seems to me that those who seek to set art aside,
Wrapping it in thick layers of paper, are like philosophers
Searching for logical proof of the Gods’ existence:
They think they are building a ladder to heaven, a sturdy vessel for their own elevation.

What do they hope to find up there?
And more importantly; what are they trying to get away from?
Look at them hammering away with their golden hammers.
It is a mighty edifice indeed, but from down here it looks like a scaffold.

Chiron: The man in me would like to pursue this argument further,
But the horse in me is hungry.
Let us halt here for a while.
We will reach the city tomorrow.

The Hateful Kinship
In clouds of dust and wheel-lock pistol smoke
Nine gallant cuirassiers did make their charge
Upon a line of lancers on a hill…
And time stood still

When out of the corner of his eye YOUNG PRINCE HARRY
(Forward Air Controller & 3rd in line of succession)
Recognized his own reddish, distorted face
Reflected in the smooth of his raised sabre/missile;

But stranger still,
Reflected also from the blade of his royal sabre
To the points of the heathen lances & back again,
So that every single piece of polished steel in that scorched desert

Shewed only the face
Of NOBLE PRINCE HARRY
And the line
Broke –

G8
Julius Caesar wakes up in a pool of blood.
There are elephants in the lobby. They demand to be heard.
A voice says: 'Animals are not allowed to vote because they taste good.'
'Sign this,' the voice says.

Julius Caesar drinks coffee for the first time and likes it.
There are elephants in the washroom. They are stealing the towels.
A second voice says: 'This is not the presidential suite. Get out.'
'Sign this,' the second voice says.

Julius Caesar is reading a memo by the pool as they circle him.
The summit is constantly interrupted by commercials.
A third voice says: 'You are the only white person left in the world.'
Julius Caesar answers: 'Elephants have always lived in the Alps.'

Pinewood
Take the software from the Russians.
Take the hardware from the Germans.
Take twelve knights and do what must be done.
Why is the swastika so pretty?

What turns the tips of my fingers black is
Not the fresh dew on the unmarked tarpaulin.
What the Slavic tribes did to captive German knights is
Not what turns the tips of my fingers black.

This is not a swastika anymore,
Not an insect immobile in amber,
But a pine needle stuck in the resin.
Take twelve knights. Hoist a winter-white swastika of mercy.

The language of petroleum
Why do you say this is not my mouth?
Every time I shake this rosy tongue of mine
Words fall off in nonspecific clusters,
Disarranged by chance punctuation.

Hoarding stolen words in the hollows of my cheeks
Makes no sense to me anymore.
They make my eyes bulge and my spit
Taste like bitter, foreign tea.

I have fallen in love with my own cranium.
I need short and easy words,
Words that will stick to my gums,
This is how I will make love to my pretty skull.

Tokyo letters
Tokyo letters don’t write themselves, you know.
Tokyo letters are stamped with cherry blossoms.
The correct way to open a Tokyo letter
Is not with a sword, as one would think.

After the storm, the disorderly heap of fallen leaves.
When you lift the mat to shake them off, Tokyo letter.
The first line:
“I have never been to Tokyo”.

Liberty throws a surprise party
The Caribbean is empty. We are required to dim the lights.
There was a hurricane, then a typhoon, and then a tropical cyclone.
Our cameras have been smashed. There should be a palm tree right here.
No walls, no roof, no furniture, but the bar is still open.

Broken bottles, coconuts and tiny umbrellas everywhere.
Is that Hemingway buying daiquiris for Ulrike Meinhof?
It can’t be! They’re both dead now,
Or at least very drunk.

Clackbirds clacking in the dead of clack. Take these chicken wings
And learn to type. "Die Pflicht eines Clackbird ist, immer zu clacken,
Trotzdem zu clacken, bis zum Tod zu clacken."
Where have all the clackbirds gone? Fascists shot them everyone.

This year the 1936 Berlin Olympics will be hosted by China.
This year the 1944 Warsaw uprising will be hosted by Burma.
What are the stakes? The stakes are the same as ever, dude.
On this island the stakes are crowned with human skulls.

There are no dinosaurs here. No gorillas allowed. No trebuchets
To bring down sleek towers of mossy stone. No smoke, no siege works,
And the citadel refuses to fall. It is the graceful triumph of elusiveness
Over the science of history: The citadel has become fluent.

The President is there, the press, the VIPs, but she doesn’t show.
Where is she? Where is she hiding? She’s always late.
Liberty sleeps when she can. Liberty never smiles.
Liberty cries at weddings, but not at funerals.

Liberty digs her fingers like a mighty rake into the cobbled streets,
Tearing up stones and more stones for a stage to dance on; the barricade.
When Liberty has an orgasm ships go down at sea,
And the walls of great cities tremble and collapse.

Liberty sports a smart Phrygian cap, as does her sister, Barbarism.
Liberty paints her toenails with the blood of tyrants and innocents.
“It’s her.”
“She’s here.”

The shuttle
I grew, and my blind skeleton grew with me, out of the small pajamas.
I was blind to my skeleton's loom as he weaved his way out of the small pajamas.
I was blind to the quick of the shuttle, but I grew quick to the dead of his bones.
I was cut to the quick when I passed my thread through the dead of my skeleton's eyes.

I had to take the shuttle. I had to follow my skeleton right as he left.
I came through the warp and I followed the weft, and I saw the loom of the land.
When lastly I came to the thinnest strand, he turned to thank me for my mother's milk.
There he put on his new pajamas, and he filled his pockets with stones.

Explanation by way of poem, backdated
January is the cruellest month,
End of discussion.
Sweet nothing in the hand is better than snowbirds on the roof.
The flight of a single starling is lighter than a flight of stairs.

A migratory birdhouse,
brick and mortar, mortar and pestle,
Moves south in the winter but cannot cross the icy river.
A five story building. The same five stories over and over.

Boy meets girl. Girl leaves boy. Boy assembles fleet & lays siege
To the mighty city of Troy. Or: Girl meets boy. Boy leaves girl,
Promising swift return. Boy blinds Cyclops & is cursed
To roam the earth. Or: Boy meets girl. It’s his mother. The end.

Hubris, Nemesis, those are birds’ names.
Follow the flight of wild game, chase the pattern of zero sum
To the abandoned quarry where rocks beat scissors every time,
Where winter triumphs consistently and without fail.

There is no win in summer.
There is no sum in winter.
No fall. No hidden springs. No trapdoors. No levers.
A snow blind Cassandra has rigged the Electra.

On her orders great herons circle the pyramids in tight formation,
Awakening old thirst from the dirty sands of Lower Egypt,
Cursing the seemingly inevitable and necessary succession of events.
Destiny rhymes with sorrow just as kartoffel rhymes with nothing.

Is that a potato in your throat or are you just happy to see me? All this
To say: I dreamt I spotted you in the crowd. We were witnessing a historic event,
An entire species tilting on the brink of a great achievement.
You seemed so eager.

The irreducible fraction
One half of me tied to the pier, bobbing on the cobalt lake,
Wading through the reeds where you can’t find a foothold,
In the marshy places, half out of the water, beached like a young fox,
One half decomposing on the green grass, ribs puncturing slick, grey fur.

One half of me in the green, green grass by the blue, blue lake,
The other half of me half asleep in the snow,
Stuck on this mountain ledge,
Keeping half an eye over the edge.

The Republic of Silence
“The Republic of Silence may now most rightly be called,
In the fullest and truest sense, a continent.
There once were scholars there, who isolated themselves
In the pursuit of philosophy;

And there did also exist a confederation of kings,
But they were blind and deaf and dumb;
Wherefore the ocean at that spot
Has now become impassable and unsearchable…”

This is how it happened: Television commercials took off
Like fighter planes from an aircraft carrier that day,
But they couldn’t stop the silence.
My mind was finally blank.

The republic was moving.
Senators were shifting position,
Populares switching seats with Optimates
Or abandoning the benches altogether.

Governments dissolved and reformed within the space of minutes,
Paralyzing political life and delaying economic reform;
Causing the entire house to turn, pillars trembling, windows cracking,
Making the floor tiles skate and shake like plates in a quake,

Until finally in a single day and night of misfortune
The very foundations of the continent snapped like twigs,
Setting the land mass adrift
In total quiet.

Away, away - past the pillars of Heracles and beyond,
Through Mundus Subterraneus & Terrae Incognitae,
To the silent land which lies icebound beneath the pole-star.
And there I was. My mind was finally blank.

Tired and grimy, smoking a cigarette in the early hours of morning,
Sitting up in the rear of the truck, with my back to the canvas,
Alone with the sunrise, the only man awake out of twelve.
I remember the sound of the truck.

The sad story of Will Miller and Jill McGill
“There’s a miller name of Will in the windmill on the hill;
There’s a breeze in the sails but the blades are standing still…”
There’s a girl in this story too, you know. Jill McGill,
Age sixteen.

Anyways, the old mill is cursed or something. It grinds bone meal.
Jill comes by, they make love, he kills her.
I don’t know why, and neither does Will.
Tilting at the windmill from within, so to speak.

In despair, he throws her body between the grindstones.
Laughing, he throws himself from the cap of the tower.
His ghost returns every night
To claim a 10th share of the flour.

Jill too returns,
Whispering: “Are these long legs of mine
No more than chalk lines to be wiped from the blackboard?”
I’m on a roll here. You will take the poetry I give you and love it.

Midnight on the course from Iolcus
Whispered Argus the shipbuilder to Atalanta the huntress one starry night,
Standing at the helm of the Argo, as the languid waves of the Aegean lifted them
Away, away from the port of Iolcus: Yes, my dear, he may be an arrogant man,
And reckless, but a useful captain nevertheless. The plan is madness, surely,

But strategy is for chess players. Straightforward invasions are often the most effective.
Shiny columns of spearmen embark the galley, they cross the ford, they disembark.
What else is there? War comes down to making the ships sail on time.
This expedition is no different.

Whispered Atalanta the huntress in reply: Did you know that I was a princess by birth?
As a child I was abandoned by my father, the king. That man left me to die
Deep in the Boeotian woods, simply for being born a girl, and I should rightly hate him for it. And yet it is my mother I hate. What do you say to that?

Answered Argus the shipbuilder:
The hatred between mother and daughter
Is older than warfare,
And older than shipbuilding.

They stood in silence, and the beams and boards of the Argo creaked under their feet:
All except one plank, for it had been cut from the sacred grove at Dodona,
And it knew how to be silent. The constellations turned silently above their heads,
Some with names like Perseus and Orion, and others nameless yet.

The moon laurel
In the beginning of this poem, the philosopher Lucretius has a girl in his bedroom.
He holds in his hands an empty vial of green glass,
A secret medicine made from laurel berries and purchased at an extravagant prize
Through a friend, perhaps Catullus, or more likely Gaius Memmius.

Lucretius is impatient for the potion to work, but as some time passes
And still he feels no change, he begins to suspect he might have been swindled.
He registers the girl's soft hand on his shoulder as she rises to leave the poem
In quiet repetition.

And he ponders the myth of Sisyphus, to him representing Roman politics,
The eternal and convoluted pursuit of power, which is itself a hollow thing.
For ultimate victory is essentially beyond reach, like the nymph Daphne fleeing Apollo,
Narrowly escaping violation by changing herself into a laurel tree.

But to the man who has discovered the causes of things, and has
Cast beneath his feet all fears, unavoidable fate, and the din of the devouring underworld,
The sweet laurels of victory are only the leaves of that simple shrub, Laurus nobilis,
A broadleaf evergreen. They taste good in a stew and nothing more.

In his mind's eye Lucretius sees now a giant laurel tree, not planted,
Strangely, on the firm slopes of the Mediterranean, among the olive groves and the vines,
But somewhere far away, on the other side of the world and beyond, in even harsher soil.
There is, it seems to Lucretius, a giant laurel tree on the moon,

And Wu Gang is trying with all his might to fell it. The mischievous Wu Gang
Who has neglected his duties and gone in search of immortality,
Wherefore the gods have promised him a place in their immortal ranks
If only he can fell the moon laurel - an impossible task, as the tree constantly regenerates.

Lucretius the Epicurean laughs at the thought of this
Because he doesn't yet know that he has been driven mad by the love potion,
And that he will kill himself by his own hand
In the 44th year of his life.

Zombies
Zombies never panic because zombies don't go to church
Because zombies don't believe in God.
Zombies never panic because zombies watch TV all day
Because zombies believe in reportage.

Reportage --------> Feeding endless accounts of violent death
(reassuring)
Zombie --------> Continuously placed in role of survivor
(immortality)

The bookshelves of the future
I shall never forget the first time I insulted an elephant.
It was one of those chance encounters you read about,
Him an old bull,
Me a greenhorn explorer, host of my own hit TV travel show.

We both of us sought shelter from the monsoon
Under a freestanding steel construction built by uranium miners
Deep in the jungles of Africa.
This must be what the bookshelves of the future will look like, I remarked.

That elephant
Has been trying
To kill me
Ever since.

Giraffe, I saw thee
Once, accompanying the autistic children to Copenhagen Zoo, I saw thee.
One of them, a freckled boy, remarked: "The giraffe needs to get a life."
O giraffe, bow your head down gently, and listen: You should never have come!
Europe, the sorrowful maiden, has no place in her heart for such a tall animal.

When in 46 BC you first were brought here, the gawking Romans
Named you camelopard, and on the red sand of the Arena you discovered
How it feels to be casually torn to shreds by ravenous lions, in celebration
Of mighty Caesar's Egyptian triumphs: The power to kill something so rare, with such ease.

Not before the renaissance did you again set hoof on the shores of Europe,
Presented as a gift to Lorenzo de Medici by the Mamluk sultan; you were praised by poets
And immortalized in paintings by Vasari and Botticini, but in the heated stables
At the Medici villa you soon broke your neck when it came stuck in the crossbeams.

Three centuries later Mehmet Ali Pasha, Ottoman viceroy of Egypt, sent three giraffes,
One to London, one to Vienna and one to Paris, to stanch support for the Greeks
In their War of Independence. Only the French one, the one named Zarafa, survived.
5 giraffes for 18 centuries. Such rare gifts from old Egypt to careless Europe.

O giraffe, do not come to Europe! Go to China instead. There where the great admiral
Zheng He's crew brought you, thinking you the mythical qilin, the auspicious one,
Where the painter Shen Du wrote of you: "Its hoofs do not tread on living beings.
Gentle is this animal, that has in antiquity been seen but once."

Lies, lies, lies
They told me in kindergarten:
Be nice to the other children, especially the girls.
Have a crayon. Make a nice drawing.
Don’t worry about the future. Follow your heart. Don’t lie. Don’t steal.

Money isn’t everything, you know.
Money is in fact about twenty times more than everything.
Credit is everything. Credit is nothing. Value is money.
The value of money is nothing.

The interest rate determines the value of nothing.
I don’t understand the interest rate, but I think I’m OK
Because I have a little breeding.
I have a few skills afforded by unfair privilege.

I have a little money but I have nothing compared to rich people.
Rich people have money.
Refugees have no money.
Terrorists have almost no money.

If refugees had money they would stay where they were.
If terrorists had money they wouldn’t blow things up.
If rich people had money they would want more money.
Please give the terrorists some money.

Feed the refugees but don’t give them any money.
If the refugees had money they would be rich,
And why would you give money to rich people?
Rich people have money.

The value of money is nothing.
Rich people have no values.
In times when the class struggle nears the decisive hour
A small section of the ruling class is set adrift

To join the revolutionary class, which holds the future in its hands.
The iPod starts playing in the middle of the night for no reason.
The iPod starts playing in the middle of the war for no reason.
I shot the iPod through the heart in the middle of the night for no reason.

Page of swords, reversed

y
ou now
realize that
every time you se
e the german chancello
r on tv she is surrounded b
y her entourage and walking bris
kly toward a microphone stand you
can’t remember the exact sound of h
er voice but if you concentrate you c
an see that her lips are moving s
he is talking about germany
a
b
out
europe

Fury
Be quiet, Muse! Sprinkle your cherry lips with wine
As molten wax for the waning moon to seal,
And sing no more. Muse of night, hush, and heed
The sound of softly scraping hands beneath the Earth.

Approaching even now from under feet, your cousins,
The grimy Erinyes who dwell in dismal Tartarus,
Come to punish him who has sworn a false oath,
Come to punish him who has broken the ties of kinship.

Fury! Madness! In the beginning when gods were young
And men did not exist, when Kronos the Titan gelded his father,
Blood hardened like cast lead where it broke the virgin water
And the vengeful Erinyes were born. Fury! Madness!

I hear them. Retribution is at hand. That sea is thirsty again
Which once drank the blood of Titans. Sing now, O muse,
To drown out their voices. Name me the cities that have fallen
To besieging armies, pestilence, volcano or earthquake.

The doleful story of Tristram and Iseult
Sir Tristram of Lyonesse, the Cornish knight, eventually forgot his fair Iseult,
And the moss sucked the dew out of the fabric, removing the itchy, wet patch
At the seat of his pants, and he rose up from the flat rock by the ruined watermill
And walked slowly backwards out of the woods.

The angel Samael
The angel Samael, whose dominion is hell -
He slides door to door (That listless seraph),
To persuade you with graphs and a fiery sword,
His charts in accord with his well measured steps

And the lies on his lips - he’s a salesman of sorts.
But the blood of the lamb is like bug spray to Sam.
The angel Samael whose dominion is hell -
His movements are slow but he never stands still,

Peeking over the sill wherever he goes,
In his white shirt as clean as a sterile syringe,
He's dispensing revenge like a vending machine.
But the blood of the lamb is like bug spray to Sam.

The angel Samael whose dominion is hell -
He’s as prompt as a clerk, but you know what they say?
He stays home Easter day to rest from his work.
Yet the slower the front, the faster the aft -

And so after the fast he continues to hunt.
But the blood of the lamb is like bug spray to Sam.
The angel Samael whose dominion is hell -
He’s the patient type: Waiting under the tree

For the fruit to fall free, on the day it is ripe.
Eat the unleavened bread or go searching for eggs:
If you curse or you beg you will one day be dead,
And the blood of the lamb will not keep you from Sam.

Ascension Island
I’m running out of paper. I’m running out of words.
Words run off the paper like egg whites into the sink.
Cook’s hands separate the words from the paper
And discard them. Cook’s hands use the yolks

To make lunch for workers on yellow bulldozers.
Yellow bulldozers level the black, volcanic sand of Ascension Island
To build the air strip and later the golf course. Ascension Island does not exist,
Or Ascension Island does exist and its main export is stamps.

Cook does not exist, or Cook does exist and his fat, black head
is very fat and very black against the glossy white tile of the kitchen.
Cook’s fat head is thinking: I am running out of eggs.
Cook’s fat head is thinking: I am running out of pepper.

If Cook runs out of eggs there will be no lunch for the workers
And the yellow bulldozers will eventually stop running.
If Cook runs out of pepper the black volcanic sand
Will not be levelled to build the airstrip

And Ascension Island will eventually sink
Into the South Atlantic, making for a single moment
A gap in the Gulf of Guinea
For the waves to smooth over.

Here's looking at you
I love your movies, Erica. There's no denying it, I'm a fan.
That scene in the elevator, the subdued whisper, the murmur
Where there might have been a shriek. It's all in the delivery.
Your voice is so clear, it carries so far.

There's so much power in you, and you're still beautiful.
Your googly eyes, your pointy tits. No lips
To speak of, no taste in whiskey or menfolk, but I fucking love you, I do.
Hey, can I be serious for a minute? Do you remember that day?

We were coming home from some fundraiser: You were in your fur coat
And heels, the camera drops to street level to capture your face as you point up
Your mouth a big O -
Is it a bird? Is it an aeroplane? No sweetheart, it's the enemy.

And then you turn into King Kong. You turn into Godzilla. You turn yourself
Into Darth Vader, baby. Hey, don't shout, your voice is so clear,
It carries so far, it carries across the oceans, a word whispered from your lips
Is a wind that reaches around the world to make the heads of children go pop.

Shush! My heart is filled with love for you. But you keep me
At the edge of my seat. I sometimes feel like a small monkey
Stranded on an island inhabited by a whimsical, spike-headed goddess.
How do you think that make me free?

You're larger than life up there.
I speak to you, but you don't seem to listen.
Please, I love you, I really do. We all love you down here,
Your googly eyes, that broad rimmed hat, the cigarette, the gun,

The seams of your stockings as you step into the elevator,
One slim finger poised to press the button, and none of us knows yet
Whether you're going up
Or going down.

The bogy song
Silhouettes in the hall, inexplicable stains,
Fingernails scratching the windowpane.
When children go missing (it happens you know),
Their parents boggle: Where did they go?

Were they lost in the woods, did they fall in the lake?
Did a paedophile lure them with candy or cake?
Were they hit by a car, were their bodies puréed?
Did they play where we told them never to play?

But the truth is another, more dreadful, more vile.
In your stomach you know what’s befallen the child:
When children go missing and never come back,
It’s because they’ve gone into the bogyman’s sack.

Take a look at the bogy, I dare you my friend,
As he carries his victim away to its end.
Have you ever seen something as awful as him?
So horrid, so filthy, so wicked, so grim?

How on earth do such terrible things come to be?
Would the good Lord create such an evil as he?
Was he spawned by the devil or made by a man?
Did he grow like a mandrake or come in a can?

Was he built like the golem of water and earth?
No, an old gypsy told me the date of his birth:
In ancient Carthage (300 BC),
The bogy was born just like you and like me.

Long before he could speak he was already spoiled.
By the time he learnt how, he made sailors recoil.
He was cheeky to strangers and rude to his friends,
It would seem he took pleasure in causing offence.

He refused to do homework, neglected his chores,
His report card read: “Lazy and foul to the core”.
Still, his mother and father they loved him a lot.
The other Carthagians, sadly, did not.

On a day when the boy was especially gruff,
The good people of Carthage had just had enough.
See, for all of their virtues they did have one vice:
The time-honoured practice of child sacrifice.

So they carried him off to the temple of Ba’al
(The Phoenician idol they liked best of all),
He was placed on the altar and fed to the flames,
As he burned to a crisp he was cursing their names.

“Hear me, Carthagians, detestable ones,
I swear to come back for your daughters and sons!”
Over the flutes and the drums he was heard,
Even old Ba’al paid heed to his word.

On that ill-omened day in the shade of the horns,
As his body was eaten, his soul was reborn.
Now he slips through the ages under the curse,
Destined forever to wander the earth.

For his journey is fuelled by voracious hate,
By a hunger he’ll never be able to sate.
He must feed on the fears of the people he meets,
Oh, and lest we forget: All the children he eats.

He sneaks into your house around 7 pm -
Even bolted the door is no hindrance to him.
And he harvests your dread for the smallest of creeps,
And he reaps from your nightmares while you’re asleep.

And he sucks out the marrow from inside your bones,
And he moulds it to shapes he can use for his own.
When his strength is sufficient he seeks out a child -
He pursues it with terror and traps it with guile.

Once a child is entrapped in the bogyman’s sack,
It is certain to end as a nourishing snack.
Silhouettes in the hall, inexplicable stains,
Fingernails scratching the windowpane.

Fastland
I ask: Brother, can you spare a dime, a decimal, a decade?
And theyanswer always: Patience, brother, patience.
WHAT AM I? A soldier king, a veteran of countless wars,
A panhandler, a speaker of the thieves' cant, a bum?

Farewell, my island kingdom. Farewell palatial baths.
I used up all the hot water. The link that I followed
Was invalid or incomplete. My accounts were deactivated.
The laurels of my many victories were but a spice

To season that great soup: the world's ocean. I alone
Have survived to mourn the loss of a fleet. From the wreckage
Of comradeship I swam, away from journeys brave and poetic,
And came here, to the Fastland, where the gods do not exist.

Perhaps I survived because I was never here to begin with.
The fear of death is the fear of my own skeleton. Pain
Is the fear of my own blood. Ghosts are scared of music,
As everyone knows, and the gods do not exist here.

And what of the Fastlanders?
They take their coffee with milk
And the memory of heartbreak.
Heartbreak. Heartbreak. They say:

“All cities in the world are built to stay
In one place, come war or dragons, even until the day
They are ruined, burned, abandoned, or swallowed by the sea.
They sit like acquisitive shopkeepers on every coastline

Of every continent, they straddle every river and crossroad
And mountain pass, taking a bite out of every apple
That passes through their gates. There are cities on islands
Far at sea, and cities hidden deep in the green jungles

And white deserts of the east, and all these cities,
Rich or poor, are built to stay in one place. But you are not
In any of those cities now, for you have come to the Fastland,
And we all know why.” Yes, say I. I am come to blind the cyclops.

Migraine
Migraine was a clever girl,
Full of good ideas.
She invented turbo shoes
And had lovely ears.

When I met her I was drunk -
When I left her too.
Migraine tried to follow
But I took her turbo shoes.

It was many years ago,
Migraine didn't mind:
She ensnared another man,
Handsome, wealthy, blind.

Concerning the sheep under the hazel
These sheep you see before you, strewn in the shade of the hazel,
have never heard of Fionn Mac Cumhail. They have no thumbs to suck,
and so they cannot summon the knowledge and wisdom of the salmon.
Their eyes do not sparkle with magic and power. They're just sheep.

Poetry in water insoluble is
A doll's house. @ the table the dolls are seated for tea. The father doll speaks:
"In this house, children, there used to be such an abundance of poetry,
It ran down the wallpaper like resin.
We extracted approx.imately 20% directly out of our own speech,

Using simple, primary recovery methods (such as rhyme.
The pressures of language depleted, we drove another 10% to the surface
By repressurizing the poetic form in strict_metrical_patterns.
And when secondary recovery methods were no longer viable,

We switched to tertiary recovery methods; those methods which,
Though most productive, are also the most hazardous.
By gradually reducing the viscosity of poetry, through the injection of prose,
We were able to extract another 70%. But in the course of this dangerous work

We inadvertently flooded the reservoir, until the structure finally collapsed.
That was yesterday. Today, children, our work is done.
My sweet, sweet, lifelike children, I never thought this day would come:
We are OUT of poetry."2

Memoirs of a man who has accomplished nothing
I grew up on an island the size of a coin.
At the time I was old enough to see the Egyptian lady down at the Queen's Chamber
On the corner of Pyramid and Nile, she asked me how I wanted my fortunes told.
I said all I wanted was a drink, and fast.

She poured me a famous wine, of the finest vintage,
Or at least that's what it said on the bottle. To me it seemed a pale, watery drink;
I spat it out. Are you trying to trick me? I demanded.
Pour me something I'll remember tomorrow, or I'll take my money elsewhere!

The pint of beer she drew me next was the best I ever tasted,
With a head of foam on it like a clear night,
And a body like an endless day spent hiding in a field of wheat.
It seemed to last forever, echoing down my throat. It seemed to last forever.

And as perfect a drink as that was, yet halfway through
I was already thinking about the next. The beer stood stale in the glass,
Weighed down with a bitter taste, and hard to swallow.
It seemed to last forever, thank God it didn't.

Never have I thirsted for anything like that third drink.
It went straight down and burned like a pailful of souls descending to hell.
The more I drank the thirstier I was, and only at the very bottom did I recognize the taste.
Poison! I yelled. What do you mean? The glass I gave you was empty.

Water, just give me water, and she did; icy and clear like a glacial lake,
It deadened me and quenched me right down to the very soles under my shoes.
Benumbed I turned to take my paper cup and leave, but the Egyptian lady called me back: Now for the price! There's always a price.

The wine you spat out, it doesn't count. For the beer I'll give you a sovereign of gold,
For the water I'll give you a diamond. Here, take them: They're yours to carry.
What are you waiting for? Go away before I change my mind and give you more!
So I took my water and ran, not spilling a drop.

Set fire to your ships
Son, it’s a struggle.
If you start from the centre you will be surrounded,
And if you start from the edge you will have your back to the sea.
Set fire to your ships.

The great generals of antiquity are all equal now:
Julius Caesar escaped his creditors and conquered all Gaul,
But was knifed by his own friends.
Remember, and learn.

Hannibal, thunderbolt of Carthage,
Swore as a child to arrest the destiny of Rome,
And in his prime brought 37 war elephants into the Po valley.
Years later he took poison. Such are the ages of a man.

After his Italian defeats,
Pyrrhus of Epirus seized the Macedonian throne,
But in the narrow streets of Argos an old woman threw a roofing tile at his head.
Son, always be kind to women.

Things are tough all over
Winter is heartbreak: A tree will die by my hand on Sunday.
I have two coins in my pocket, one I found and one I stole,
Both on the same day. This is not a metaphor
For me having apparently decided to start smoking again.

Winter is sorrow: The scanner is dead.
Electricity comes and goes; I spend half the time alone
In a house without power. In a house, without power.
If there’s a ghost in my office it’s me.

Winter says: "You were the celery in my Bloody Mary.
And who likes celery? Not me. It’s a disgusting fruit.
Every bite is abhorrent, but without it the drink is ruined."
My drink is ruined. If there’s a ghost in my office, it’s you.

Winter is when I sing and dance. Winter is
THINGS ARE TOUGH ALL OVER.
Winter is my delight in the smallest of victories,
To have forgotten even two digits of your phone number.

White the plot through pane,
Trampled by virgin’s feet the snakeless grass,
Rime in beard and icy teeth: My Crete lies empty.
Nailed and crossed over static phone lines,

Your christmassy voice in the hum.
Dumb like a lamb I am to Christ, but no stranger to hubris,
The familiar hint of acetone on the exile of older gods.
Exhaled on this my island of Teflon

You bid me choose between salt and pepper -
If patience then is virtue and wrath is deadly sin,
My revenge
Will be white.

Digger digger digger dig
I need a powerful metaphor. I seek a powerful metaphor.
We go in search of a powerful metaphor.
At the centre of this poem is a powerful metaphor.
This poem is engined by a POWERFUL metaphor.

It’s not on the surface, between the tall stalks
That tricked the lawnmower. No. It hides because
We must dig for it. Or I must dig and you must watch.
Because it has to be like digging, yes, yes, shut up.

Or let’s say it’s like mining on a gaseous planet.
The stripy one with the storm on the surface, Jupiter.
Try drilling for diamonds on that one, because you can’t.
Why, the drill would fall right out of your hands and disappear.

Like the time you saw that movie again, and it was
No masterpiece, not the second time you saw it.
& that’s why you keep your iPod on shuffle.
& that’s why you press the skip button through your jeans.

But fuck me if there wasn’t a time when the colours were
Like BAM and every other song made you fall in and out of love
Like a drunk man staggering down the street. But now, sadly,
You’re old, plus you’re getting a little fat (It’s true).

They say humans made poetry before they made prose.
So what? Once in awhile you’ll stumble over some old track
And put it on repeat until it loses its flavour. Are you going to
Help me with the digging or are you going to just stand there?

Come ye howling demons and ghosts
"Night," I cried, "ink me black once more!" And chasing
The echo of a girl’s name I waded waist high across Styx,
Terrible river, into the mouth of Hades, and came back
Blackened by the soot of cannons, divorce and infamy.

"Day," I said then, "Wash grime from time!" And so I dove
Into the white of the snow. I divided the pride of a king
By twice the vice of a fool, borrowed from the sorrow of tomorrow,
And followed the arrow into the sparrow.

Selkirk and his Lady Greenface
My love! My love! We need a better system 4 your keys don't seem to work.
Take my hand. Stand up and X them creaking floorboards, backwards,
Backwards, away from teh screen of trees and forget those other islands.
They're in the fog now & we've lost them forever. Make this island work.

Build a better shelter. Chase them fucking goats and make fire like we used to.
Get drunk on coconut juice and run around naked like them fucking goats.
C? We've become like them goats, darting for cover at the unexpected sight of
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------> Sails.

Ode to Envy
Invidia! Dark Goddess of kittens, cocks and shoelaces,
Matron of pedestrians and gladiators, overgrown wellspring
Of hidden devices, my absent mistress; Invidia!
Your hair is braided with many retreats.

Shapely Invidia! You hide from me, but I see your shadow cast,
Checkered past the kitchen floor, whence a hinged trapdoor leads me
To your downstairs panty, excuse me, pantry -
Fuck it, I lost my rhythm.

I couldn't find you, Invidia, so I wrote your name on a climb of vine;
It begins with 4 and it ends with nine.
I called your name into a woman's shoe.
I called your name but you didn't answer.

Heads, I called you first by your maiden name,
Tails, I called you then by your greek name.
You liked that, and so you came -
Now I see your face, Invidia, on the obverse of every coin.

The last book on Earth
This may be the last book. All these books will disappear. No,
I am not prepared to make an exact prediction of when or where,
But books will cease to exist, as all things cease; eventually.
Think about it: Have you received many telegrams lately?

You can't reach the dodo by e-mail. His number is not in use.
Still, poetry may presumably outlive her younger, uglier sibling,
At least in printed form, for poets are mostly sentimental types.
Also: Some cultures or classes may hold on to their books longer

Than others. Books may become rare & prized objects to the very
Civilizations which abandon them first, while still cheaply made
And circulated in the poorest regions of the world. The truly rich
Never burn their candles for the same reasons as do the truly poor.

There will be that final book, therefore; that last book on Earth.
But in what sense? The last book printed? The last book published?
Or: The last book read, the last reading (...) Or: The last actually
Remaining book, the last book in existence, hidden among the bones

And garbage, half buried in the beige sands and gray ashes,
Pages flapping in gusts of contaminated air. A phone directory
For a dead city, say. Or: The last scribble made by a man,
Or something similar to a man. Or: The last book-like device,

Some electronic tablet, transparent screen like cellophane,
Crisp Sanskrit fading as the battery dies. 2 weeks from now,
Blind meteors may collide with this our green Earth, turning it into
A single ball of fire. On the shelf of some Antarctic research station

One scientific diary may burn marginally slower, making it
For a nanosecond: The last book on Earth. The last book on Earth
May be a bible or a pornographic novel. The last book on Earth
May be less than the magic 200 pages. It may even be more properly

Described as a magazine. Farther out there can be other races,
They can have their “language”, their “writing” and their “books”,
They can keep their copies of the many postcards we've mailed them
Over the years, using rocket fuel for stamps. But no more books for us.

No more detective stories in the hammock. What you hear as
The quiet buzzing of bumble bees is in reality the battle of workers
Evicting fat drones from the nest. Turn the page and put the book down.
Summer is ended when you know who committed the murder.

My new online portfolio

2010-03-20T20:37:00.001+01:00

You'll find it here. In Norwegian. Because the baby needs shoes.

Lady Greenface

2010-03-13T20:01:00.002+01:00

My love! My love! We need a better system 4 your keys don't seem to work.
Take my hand. Stand up and X them creaking floorboards, backwards,
Backwards, away from teh screen of trees and forget those other islands.
They're in the fog now & we've lost them forever. Make this island work.

Build a better shelter. Chase them fucking goats and make fire like we used to.
Get drunk on coconut juice and run around naked like them fucking goats.
C? We've become like them goats, darting for cover at the unexpected sight of
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------> Sails.

kidz r us

2010-02-21T22:05:00.002+01:00

Porno

2010-02-05T11:49:00.009+01:00

Oh no, not again!

2010-01-28T18:53:00.000+01:00

Descriptions of pictures

2010-01-27T19:48:00.001+01:00

Woman street vendor, south east Asia. She is wearing one of those round hats. On the table in front of her a bowl of lime, and a big plate of fried dog heads.

The familiar male/female icon used to indicate the location of a toilet. The female figure is holding a bloody axe. The male figure has been decapitated.

Black and white photograph of a horse and rider, the man in full body suit and gas mask, the horse wearing a protective device over the muzzle. In handwriting, lower left corner: "Edgewood 1939".

Tid for ettertanke

2010-01-16T22:22:00.004+01:00

"Vær varsom. Tenk etter. Tenk nøye etter, menneske. For bare slik vil du oppnå harmoni. Og ikke minst balanse. Du vil balansere harmonisk i ditt liv, der du haster etter drømmene dine, lik en spurv på stranden."

Mikkel Grüner, usertifisert Life Coach/Motivator og Tankefeltspedagog.

Tid for debatt

2010-01-09T20:11:00.005+01:00

Nei, NÅ er det så lenge siden jeg har sagt eller skrevet noe fornuftig at jeg nesten har glemt hvordan man gjør. Sannheten er nok at jeg hovedsakelig bruker humor til å filtrere de store sakene i vår tid, og i mitt eget liv. Som oftest fungerer det helt ypperlig.

Men av og til er det viktig å ta et skritt bakover. Ta tak i de store spørsmålene. Tenke litt. Formulere meninger. Ta stilling. Delta i samfunnsdebatten. For det er jo dette man gjør. Når man skriver veldig korte setninger. Sånn som jeg gjør nå.

Sånn er det. Sånn er samfunnsdebatten. Når kvinner skriver. Særlig kvinner. Men mest menn. Ja, du kjenner typen. Da blir det tenkt etter. Setning for setning. Det blir liksom litt alvorlig. Høytidelig. Men samtidig kan man snakke ned til leseren. Som til et barn. På den måten er det veldig praktisk.

Så la oss starte med dette da. Dette med ordene. Med alvoret i ordene. Ja, for hvis man midt inne i en bråte med korte setninger plutselig skriver en veldig lang setning, en setning som bare blir ved og ved og ved, hvor komma følger komma uten at det ser ut til noensinne helt å ville stoppe opp, ja, da er man virkelig inne på noe, selve kjernen av noe.

Da må man stoppe opp lidt. Bruke korte setninger. Roe leseren ned. Få pusten. Og så gir man pludselig gass igjen, med disse endeløse rekkene av ord som kjedes sammen med skarpe kommaer, lange rekker av viktige tanker som gytes ut som torskesperm over de fertile eggehodene som sitter langt der ute i de tusen metaforer og slett ikke skjønner hvordan setningen kunne bli så lang, kanskje fordi de allerede har glemt hvor den begynte.

Da må man stoppe opp igjen. Vent, sier man. Vent nå litt. Vi må ned i tempo. Nå er det veldig viktig det vi sier. Vi blir nemlig selv veldig viktige når vi får lov å diskutere veldig viktige saker. Kanskje vi til og med kan få en veldig viktig jobb.

Men først må vi markere oss. Vi må vri litt på ordene. Vi må tørre å tenke nytt. Vi må kanskje til og med sjokkere. Si noe uventet. Si det motsatte av det alle andre sier, men på en lidt lur måte, sånn at noen kanskje legger merke til oss og gir oss en veldig viktig jobb. Da får vi penger som lønn for ordene. Pengene bruker vi til å kjøpe melk, og brød, og ost, og kanskje vi unner oss selv en liten teskje med Superba Krill. Mmmmmh, krill.

For er det ikke nettopp sånn? Er det ikke sånn det er? Forholder det seg ikke slik? Er det ikke nettopp på denne måten tingene henger sammen, om jeg tørr spørre? Tørr jeg spørre litt tørt? Spørr jeg tørre? Skal jeg tørrspørre deg midt i svaret ditt, foran alle disse menneskene? Nei, hør nå. Du misforstår.

La oss i stedet drepe hverandre, sier nå jeg, bare som et eksempel altså. La oss skyte og knivstikke hverandre. Det blir noe annet igjen. Men vi kan godt gjøre det for min del. For jeg er så lei av dere alle sammen, skjønner dere. Jeg ønsker sterkt å sprenge ting i luften, store bygninger, gjerne offentlige kontorer. Men jeg gjør det ikke, selvom jeg vet hvordan man gjør. For jeg er jo tross alt et etisk menneske. Jeg har etikk så det holder i mange uker.

Nettopp derfor. Takk.

2010-01-08T11:43:00.007+01:00

Spør du meg burde Terra Film sporenstreks gått til sak mot Kurt "Jeg reddet mitt eget skinn" Westergaard for plagiat. Det er jo helt tydelig at han har tyvstjålet ideen fra dem.

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ADDENDUM: Ooh! Denne posten utløste et selebert besøk fra ytringsfrihetens heltemodige forkjempere. Jeg er sikker på at de vil støtte min hellige rett til å publisere hva jeg vil:

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ADDENDUM: Åh nei! Det verst tenkelige har skjedd!

Norges mest leste blogger, Mikkel (14), hadde aldri trodd han skulle nå så langt. Les mer HER.

My snowhouse, let me show you it

2010-01-02T23:06:00.003+01:00

So I built a snowhouse with my oldest son. As you can see, it has all the required elements of a snowhouse in that 1) it is a house, and 2) it is made of snow. The structure is perfectly sound, I assure you. Please feel free to come inside. Here, let me close the snowdoor behind you.

Pride, the never-failing vice of fools.

Come ye howling demons and ghosts

2009-12-30T02:37:00.001+01:00

"Night," I cried, "ink me black once more!" And chasing
The echo of a girl’s name I waded waist high across Styx,
Terrible river, into the mouth of Hades, and came back
Blackened by the soot of cannons, divorce and infamy.

"Day," I said then, "Wash grime from time!" And so I dove
Into the white of the snow. I divided the pride of a king
By twice the vice of a fool, borrowed from the sorrow
Of tomorrow, and followed the arrow into the sparrow.

All rise for the the yuletide dwarf

2009-12-23T20:04:00.004+01:00

Den kalde krigens siste forsvarslinje

2009-12-20T15:29:00.005+01:00

Big ass julestjerne - check.

Big ass juletre - check.

To tusen tonn med motherfucking colombian coke - hey, vent nå litt! Hvor har det blitt av all kokainen vi lastet ned fra internett?

Deeeer var den ja. Tre linjer med skyttergraver og artilleristillinger - check.

Hvis du er i tvil, så grav.

Hvis du fortsatt er i tvil, grav dypere. JEG SA GRAV DYPERE!!!

OK, ikke mer kokain til NK.

Da mangler vi bare et par ting. Et stykk shitfaced pappa bevepnet med saks og lim - check.

Et stykk goddamn stjerne til juletreet - check.

Og SÅ er det motherfucking jul i det motherfucking blå huset! Hell yeah.

Refleksjoner nå i juletiden

2009-12-15T14:54:00.005+01:00

Nei, nå har jeg aldri! Sannelig om ikke! Går det an? Går det an? Og så til de grader. Men når det er sagt: Julen står for døren.

Et barn er født i Betlehem, sies det, men personlig er jeg mer opptatt av de nære ting. Den gode samtalen. Å være der for noen. Noen som trenger at man er der. For vi trenger alle å bli sett. Det er så mange som ikke blir sett skikkelig. De står bare der, men ingen ser dem. Hallo? Er her noen? Ja faktisk, lyder svaret, jeg er her. Jeg har følelser og tanker, og med stor sannsynlighet en diagnose. Se meg! Se diagnosen min! Skal vi danse?

Det handler om identitet. Det handler om penger. Det handler om å leve. Det handler om å handle. Det handler om å ha handlingsrom og handlekraft. Det handler om diagnosen min, som gjør meg helt handlingslammet. Se meg! Se hvor lam jeg er i handlingene mine! Skal vi danse? Skal vi danse, spør jeg? Men så se dog på meg menneske, der du haster forbi uten tanke for annet enn langt viktigere og mer interessante ting enn meg og diagnosen min.

For er det ikke nettopp slik? Er det ikke sånn at vi alle? Har vi det ikke ofte på den? Kan det tenkes at vi under tiden? Bør det være sånn for samer? Sassa sussu si sar sar sooooo? Mange ganger har jeg tenkt at. Ikke bare i julen må vi. Reflektere over det å være der for. Hverandre og se de som ikke blir. Sett er viktig, veldig. Viktig.

Takk. Og Gud velsigne de som.

Dette budskapet ble betalt av Superba Krill - krill for kjennere.

Mikkel løser usynlighetens gåte

2009-12-13T23:59:00.012+01:00

Concerning the sheep under the hazel

2009-12-12T13:52:00.003+01:00

These sheep you see before you, strewn in the shade of the hazel,
have never heard of Fionn Mac Cumhail. They have no thumbs to suck,
and so they cannot summon the knowledge and wisdom of the salmon.
Their eyes do not sparkle with magic and power. They're just sheep.

SHÄDY ÄCRES avslører

2009-12-09T15:34:00.002+01:00

Jernteppet funnet i gammel koffert på et loft i Odessa. Viste seg ved nærmere ettersyn å være et helt vanlig teppe, og var ikke laget av jern likevel. For fremtiden vil jernteppet derfor bli omtalt bare som "teppet". Dette er til orientering.

Det har igjen blitt tid for...

2009-12-07T22:08:00.006+01:00

Ja, det stemmer. Vi har jevnlig brevkasse her hos SHÄDY ÄCRES, du har bare ikke lagt merke til det før.

I denne utgave av brevkassen har vi bl.a. fått inn flere brev. La oss starte med det første.

Kjære SHÄDY ÄCRES.

Jeg har veldig lav Omega-3 indeks. Hva skal jeg gjøre? Jeg har prøvd alt. Hjelp meg! Hjelp meg!

Hilsen ”Fortvilet”.

SHÄDY ÄCRES svarer:

Kjære ”Fortvilet”.

Du bør øyeblikkelig skifte til Superba Krill. Det er et kjent faktum at kroppen ikke produserer krill, og derfor må den tilføres krill på jevnlig basis. Krill er godt for såre ledd og muskler, og kan i noen situasjoner virke kolesteroldempende, forutsatt at du spiser veldig, veldig mye av det. Superba Krill kommer fra verdens reneste havområde, og smaker deilig krill. Prøv det da vel.

Neste spørsmål vi har fått inn er fra en lytter i Televåg.

Kjære SHÄDY ÄCRES.

Jeg er veldig bekymret for at all den fremmedkulturelle innvandringen til det vakre landet vårt kanskje kan komme til å ødelegge den flotte kulturen vår og voldta mine to døtre og min golden retriever. Jeg har derfor meldt meg inn i et politisk parti, og nå lurer jeg fælt på om jeg har valgt det rette partiet for nettopp min livsstil. Kan dere gi meg råd og/eller veiledning?

Vennlig hilsen en lytter i Televåg.

SHÄDY ÄCRES svarer:

Kjære Bent.

For jeg antar du heter Bent, gjør du ikke? Vi vet utmerket godt hvilket parti du har meldt deg inn i, og vi liker det slettes ikke. Når revolusjonen kommer vil medlemslisten til nettopp ditt parti bli brukt som vår personlige huskeliste. Ja, det stemmer, du kommer til å bli henrettet. Så er du forberedt, og trenger ikke tenke mer på det. Du bør dessuten sporenstreks skifte til Superba Krill.

Det siste spørsmål i denne omgang har vi fått printet ut på en e-mail.

Kjære SHÄDY ÄCRES!!

Jeg leser spalten deres hver dag og synes dere gir mange gode råd og vink. Selv er jeg mellom 42 år gammel, og lever til daglig i det man kan kalle for et slags samboerskap (dvs. jeg bor i et skap). Men nå har jeg et spørsmål. Jeg har nettopp hatt trekantsex for første gang i mitt liv, og det var helt fantastisk!! Nei åh nei, hvor var det bare frekt og grenseoverskridende, men samtidig litt skummelt. Jeg er fortsatt helt satt ut. Det eneste problemet er at trekanten har blitt litt våt. Skal jeg kaste den eller bør jeg i disse klimatider vaske og gjenbruke den?

Hilsen ”Skorpionen”.

SHÄDY ÄCRES svarer:

Kjære ”Skorpion”.

Du er et veldig ensomt menneske, og du bør skamme deg. Du burde aldri noensinne begitt deg ut på å ha sex med en trekant, nei, du burde i stedet skifte til Superba Krill, og neste gang du eventuelt måtte føle noen unaturlige lyster melde seg der inne i skapet, ja da må du heller ha tre med en sekskant. Det er da noe alle vet.

Så har vi ikke mer i denne omgang. Oppfør dere onkli til vi ses igjen. OGSÅ DEG!

Migraine

2009-12-05T22:36:00.007+01:00

Migraine was a clever girl,
Full of good ideas.
She invented turbo shoes
And had lovely ears.

When I met her I was drunk -
When I left her too.
Migraine tried to follow
But I took her turbo shoes.

It was many years ago,
Migraine didn't mind:
She ensnared another man,
Handsome, wealthy, blind.

(I wrote this fantastic poem when Sara had to change a diaper right in the middle of Porco Rosso.)

Lust in translation

2009-12-02T10:19:00.009+01:00

OK, so I'm having a conversation with what I presume is a Japanese spam bot in the comments of a previous post. For your entertainment I have used Google Translate to give the already hilarious exchange the added dimension of Chinese whispers.

(No, not Japanese whispers, because that's a compilation album by British group The Cure. I hardly ever listen to The Cure anymore, not since Robert Smith started taking anti-depressants. But that's beside the point.)

Japanese spam bots are GO!

人妻 said...

Hな人妻たちの社交場、割り切った付き合いも当然OK！欲求不満のエロ人妻たちを好みに合わせてご紹介します。即会い、幼な妻、セレブ、熟女、SM妻、秘密、以上6つのジャンルから遊んでみたい女性を選んでください

6:22 AM

(Housewife said ...
H socializing with their wives, of course socializing practical-minded and OK! Here are their wives to taste erotic frustration. Immediately met, a young wife, celebrity, Mature, SM wife, secret, six more women want to play Please select from one genre)

Mikkel said...

You lost me at hello.

10:55 AM

Mikkel said...

Hey, I know you! You're that Japanese crawler whose IP I blocked because you sent me 40.000 hits a day. Thanks for the link to your porn site, though. I'm definitely going to check it out!

11:10 AM

サイドビジネス said...

1日5万円～が手に入るサイドビジネスのご案内です。男狂いのセレブ女性はネットで知り合った男を次々に金の力で食い散らかしています。そんな女性を手玉にとって大金を稼いでみませんか

5:31 AM

(Side business said ...
Million - 5 per day offers you can get a side business. Female celebrities nymphomaniac the next man he met on the Internet people are lying about eating with the power of money. Why women make good money for such a finger)

Mikkel said...

Well, now you're just teasing me. Besides, my penis is much bigger than that, so I'm afraid it breaks the suspension of disbelief when you show me pictures like that. Please put some normal-sized penises into your porn next time. But keep the petite, submissive women.

9:15 AM

Hチェッカー said...

みんなで楽しめるHチェッカー！簡単な設問に答えるだけであなたの隠されたH度数がわかっちゃいます！あの人のムッツリ度もバレちゃう診断を今すぐ試してみよう

5:50 AM

(H Checker said ...
H Checker everyone to enjoy! Only the hidden answers to your questions in a simple frequency H is known to tea! Now try to diagnose Chau Muttsuri like him more than once Bale)

Mikkel said...

Well I've never. That is amazing. Did you just build an invisible superpenis out of Japanese letters? Truly magnificent.

8:59 AM

家出 said...

最近流行の家出掲示板では、各地のネットカフェ等を泊り歩いている家出少女のメッセージが多数書き込みされています。彼女たちはお金がないので掲示板で知り合った男性の家にでもすぐに泊まりに行くようです。あなたも書き込みに返事を返してみませんか

6:18 AM

(Away from home said ...
The recent trend away from home message boards, and wrote many messages are runaway girl is walking around the Internet cafes, etc. stay. They are going to stay as soon as the men he met at the bulletin board at the house I have no money. Why even write you back an answer)

Mikkel said...

Now that you mention it, I am a bit worried about the tiny, black hole in the fabric of space. But the people at CERN, who run the Large Hadron Collider, say they have the miniscule black hole under quarantine and are monitoring its progression. So I guess we're going to be fine.

Apparently they're trying to re-create and study the origins of the universe or something, and to end the search for the elusive Higgs Boson or 'God particle', whatever the hell that is.

8:08 AM

高収入アルバイト said...

性欲を持て余し、欲求不満になっている女性を金銭の対価を得て、癒して差し上げるお仕事です。参加にあたり用紙、学歴等は一切問いません。高収入アルバイトに興味のある方はぜひどうぞ

6:10 AM

(High-income part-time job said ...
Too much sexual desire, with the price of money has been frustrated women, and healing work that you may have. Join Niatari paper, and 問Imasen any educational background. If you are interested in high-income part-time job Zehi interest)

Mikkel said...

God, I'm sorry to hear that. Were you two close? It's always sad when family members have their heads and legs cut off in freak sushi making accidents, but I must say, this remembrance page you've set up for your sister is very touching. I like how all her girlfriends have left little comments and anecdotes. Very moving.

8:48 AM

高級チェリー said...

童貞を奪ってみたい女性たちは、男性にとって「初体験」という一生に一度だけの、特別なイベントを共に心に刻み込むことを至上の喜びにしているのです。そんな童貞好きな女性たちと高級チェリーで最高のSEXをしてみませんか

6:28 AM

(Luxury Cherry said ...
Virginity is like robbing the women, for men "first experience" that only once in a lifetime, I have to inscribe in mind that the supreme pleasure of a special event together. Best quality cherries and women like you want to make a SEX such Virgin)

Mikkel said...

Dear Luxury Housewife 2000.

This is to tell you that I'm breaking up with you. I ran your letters through Google Translate and now the mystery is gone.

I always imagined we would have little spam botlets and grow old together, or rather, I would grow old and you would stay exactly the same. But it wasn't to be.

It seems you have been playing me for a fool. Those words at the bottom of the page, those cold, terrible words: "All rights reserved. Japanese use only."

How can I go on? How can I go on pretending you love me? No. It's over. I am not taking you back. Not this time.

8:47 AM

That's it so far.

So now you know: People are lying about eating with the power of money.

Anyway, I'll let you all know how this evolves. I'm pretty sure we haven't heard the last of Luxury Housewife 2000!

The Earth is hollow

2009-12-01T22:10:00.001+01:00

I'm just kidding. The Earth is not hollow at all.

Aliens built the pyramids

2009-12-01T22:06:00.003+01:00

I'm just kidding. The Egyptians built the pyramids, aliens had nothing to do with it.

We're all going to die

2009-12-01T22:03:00.000+01:00

I'm not kidding. Unfortunately we're all going to die. Yes, I know. It's very sad.

Pictures accompanied by witty comments

2009-11-30T12:31:00.010+01:00

First of all, I have to warn you; there's a tiny bit of product placement going on in this blog post, but you probably won't notice.

This is a girl I know.

Some kids who hang around the house sometimes. They're kind of noisy.

Not all the time, though. I don't know which freaks me out the most.

They sneak into my office and use my pens, which is highly annoying.

I have to tolerate it because I'm scared of their mothers. That's the awful truth.

I hate it when they leave ink stains on my desk. This is not some nursery, it's a workplace goddammit!

Go read a book or something, you miscreants. There. Now they're all silent again. It creeps me out.

Muffin time! In the blue house it's muffin time when you least expect it. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not.

Look pensive.

Look pensive, I said. No, pensive, not bored.

This one kid is so bored he has to stimulate himself with a hand puppet.

Oh, I'm so booored. There's nothing to dooo.

TA DAH! Board game time. Yay!

So this is the world premiere of my board game, PING, which is now available in a book shop near you (if you happen to live near a book shop in Bergen, Norway).

Yes, that's right. Bergen, Norway. Not Lüleå, Finnmärk. How did you get that crazy idea?

I have NO idea what's going on here. Probably another super creative brain wave.

This other kid is doing push-ups or something. What the hell is going on here? I don't even remember taking this picture!

Hanging out at my parents' house. If I knew the exact growth rate of the kid's hair I would be able to calculate the time span between these two photos.

Autumn. What a lovely time of year. We are reminded of the time Jesus Christ our saviour got drunk with his band mates, and he was in some crazy bar fight, and then he wrote psalm no. 257 the next morning while he was still hung over.

Some lady in the woods somewhere.

There's that lady again. I hope she's not an evil witch or something.

Ooooh, some scary ruins deep in the woods. WATCH OUT! Oh, it was just a chanterelle.

What's going on here? Hey, I know that view.

We've been here before, haven't we?

What - another kid?!

Great. Another mouth to feed.

We'll call her Bella, because she's beautiful.

What - are you still here? Go home! Oh. You live here.

Dusk in the valley of the happy nice people.

Look at that beautiful baby. Look at it. You feel sleepy. You want to buy board games. Lots and lots of board games.

Lots and lots and lots of board games. THOUSANDS of board games. Go out and buy them now.

Or I'll train the baby to throw rocks at you.

"Udansk"

2009-11-29T09:25:00.005+01:00

I denne artikkel fra Politiken kan du læse om noget så udansk som inddrivning av beskyttelsespenge, fra noget så dansk som en... SM-klinik??

Hvor er det dejligt at lov og orden-partierne som har siddet ved magten siden 2001 har skabt sådan et fredeligt og hyggeligt lille samfund.

Gud velsigne Danmark.

OK guys, time for lunch

2009-11-28T16:23:00.001+01:00

-What, already? Can't we shoot some more boars first?
-You're right. Let's shoot some more boars.
-He's right. We haven't shot nearly enough boars yet.
-I agree. More boar-shooting! More! More! More!
-Me too. I haven't met the quota yet. I only shot seventeen boars.
-You are such a loser. I shot twenty-six boars before breakfast.
-Stop it guys. You're boaring me.
-(All) Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh ho ho! Ha ha ha! Ha! Hum.

Klart vi skal dit! Hele familien!

2009-11-27T13:36:00.003+01:00

Mer informasjon (og visuelt GOLD) finner du her.

Spam free Ukrainian dating

2009-11-26T23:32:00.002+01:00

(Warning: Contains canned meat products made mainly from ham)

This image or video has been moved or deleted

2009-11-26T21:15:00.000+01:00

Or both.

This is one dead blog

2009-11-21T19:36:00.003+01:00

Maybe I
should have
spent my
valuable time
building an
online portfolio
instead.

Mikkel - en hverdagsfilosof

2009-11-12T11:31:00.004+01:00

Hva skjedde? Hvor ble det av dagene? Var det livet? Hvorfor skjer det ingenting på denne bloggen? Er jeg den eneste som skriver noe her? Hvorfor det? Er det min feil? Får jeg lønn for det? Ikke det, altså?

Vil det si jeg jobber gratis for å more dere utakknemmelige idioter som bare syter og klager hele tiden? "Uhuu, vi kjeder oss, Mikkel. Underhold oss! Underhold oss! Uhuuu." Psssht! Gå og kjøp dere en Donald Pocket, sier nå jeg.

Vel vel. La nå det ligge. Vi har alle vårt. Jeg har mange baller i luften akkurat nå, og med baller mener jeg testikler. Ja, det stemmer, jeg står på hender mens jeg skriver dette. "Mange" baller er kanskje en overdrivelse, men jeg kan telle i hvert fall en to-tre stykker.

Uansett. Vi lever i en spennende tid. Store hendelser skjer rett der borte, men du er ikke invitert. Hvis du er heldig får du sett det på TV senere.

GET OFF MY BACK

2009-11-08T22:01:00.002+01:00

This is to inform you that we've gone surfing.

Snikpremiere på brettspillet PING

2009-09-22T21:57:00.013+02:00

Familiespillet PING vil begeistre og forundre deg så mye at du nesten besvimer! Alle kan være med, store som små!

Spill det når familien er samlet. Spill det til jul, i stuen, foran peisen. I sengen. På hytten. I dusjen - nei, ikke der. PING er samtidig det perfekte vorspielspill for alle som går med en liten bergenser i magen! (Hallo?) Spill det på blåturen og til julebordet. Spill det til du faller om av utmattelse og glede.

La deg forføre av de nusselige små pingvinene, og de andre herlige dyrene du kjenner fra Akvariet på Nordnes, hele byens egen søledam.

Le og gråt sammen med alle de artige karakterene vi kjenner fra byens smitt og smau - kjuagutten, østlendingen, strilen, satanisten, og mange, mange fler!!!

Ta Beffen! Ta Statsraaden! Ta Fløybanen! Ta deg i akt for den skumle Nygårdsparken! Bank dine tjommier i dette spillet og se dem gråte!

DU KOMMER TIL Å ELSKE DET!!!! HURRA!!!!

Familiespillet PING kan nå kjøpes på Akvariet i Bergen, og hos utvalgte bokhandlere og leketøysbutikker i Bergen og omegn, pris ca. 399, -

Hvis du er en bokhandler, leketøysbutikk eller liknende og ønsker å bestille PING, kan du kontakte Midttun Forlag v/ sjur@midttunforlag.no for å innhente et tilbud.

Mikkels private helvete 17

2009-09-12T13:44:00.001+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 16

2009-09-10T18:18:00.000+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 15

2009-09-09T12:59:00.000+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 14

2009-09-09T11:01:00.000+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 13

2009-09-08T11:47:00.001+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 12

2009-09-07T22:47:00.001+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 11

2009-09-06T11:31:00.001+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 10

2009-09-04T10:17:00.003+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 9

2009-09-03T20:29:00.001+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 8

2009-08-30T11:45:00.000+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 7

2009-08-27T13:43:00.001+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 6

2009-08-26T12:06:00.001+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 5

2009-08-25T20:52:00.002+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 4

2009-08-25T11:54:00.002+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 3

2009-08-24T21:28:00.005+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 2

2009-08-24T15:59:00.002+02:00

Mikkels private helvete 1

2009-08-24T15:44:00.004+02:00

En komplett, destruktiv analyse av tingenes tomhet

2009-08-10T00:43:00.002+02:00

Slik blir livet ditt om høyresiden vinner valget

2009-07-28T09:18:00.008+02:00

Du våkner opp til en vanlig dag i året 2010. Erna Solberg er landets statsminister. Siv Jensen er utenriksminister, for tiden på visitt i de israelske bosetningene på Vestbredden som norske oljepenger har betalt for.

Per Kristian Foss har blitt kurert for sin homofili av helse- og kirkeminister Nina Karin Monsen. Velferdsstaten er avskaffet. NRK har blitt kjøpt opp av TV2, og de viser rally-VM hele døgnet. Norske styrker er stasjonert i Nord-Korea, Iran, Pakistan, Burma, Zimbabwe og Venezuela.

Hvor er alle negrene og muslimene? Ingen har sett dem siden kommunalminister Per Sandberg fikk tak i dem.

Du går på internett for å lese VG-nett, den eneste nettavisen som har overlevd uten pressestøtte, og dette er hva du ser:

HUSK: Dette er intet skrekkscenario, det er beinharde politiske realiteter. Valget er ditt.

Alt om min bror

2009-07-23T15:25:00.062+02:00

Skjebnen ville det slik at jeg for nylig var tvunget til oppholde meg i en større norsk provinsby på Østlandet, la oss kalle den Oslo. Jeg skulle egentlig ha feriert i Sverige, men turen ble avlyst, og jeg fikk istedet den uventete fornøyelsen å besøke min kjære bror.

Som så mange andre mennesker i dette samfunn har jeg en bror som heter Martin. Men der slutter likheten: Martin adskiller seg nemlig på vesentlige punkter fra de andre brødrene som heter Martin. Martin er unik fordi han er spesiell, og de som kjenner ham vet hva han står for.

De kalde fakta er ubestridelige: Martin Grüner Larsen (28) er født på Rigshospitalet i København. Han er dansk statsborger, men har bodd i Norge siden 1989, noe som har medført en herlig språkforvirring.

Martin er utdannet ved universitetet i Bergen, hvor jeg har en vag forestilling om at han kanskje studerte noe sånt som teatervitenskap eller eksperimentell fiskebiologi, men jeg må ærlig talt innrømme at jeg ikke er helt sikker.

Han er ansatt som journalist og redaksjonssekretær i Klassekampens bokmagasin, hvor han skriver under signaturen MGL. Han bor på Bolteløkka sammen med den fremadstormende Ragnfrid Trohaug.

Men Martin er så uendelig mye mer enn det. Han er en habil guitarist, en litterat og (dare I say it?) internettkjendis. Martin er en hvit hai i det stigende havet av sosiale medier som truer med å drukne oss.

Du finner ham bl.a. på hans høyt respekterte blogg (...) og på Twitter og på Flickr og på Facebook og LinkedIn og Underskog og hvis det fortsatt ikke er nok for deg kan du google ham mellom kl. 12 og 16 på hverdager.

Men hvem er han egentlig, denne Martin Grüner Larsen? Jeg bestemte meg for å finne det ut.

Tirsdag den 21. juli 2009 fulgte jeg derfor Martin fra han sto opp til han gikk i seng, og dokumenterte hans minste bevegelser nøye.

<--- Her er jeg i gang med å dokumentere. Martin tok bildet.

Det ble en reise gjennom hele det menneskelige følelsesregister: Vi lo, vi gråt, vi bygget en nøyaktig replika i skala 4:1 av Johanneskirken i seterrømme, og underveis gjorde jeg mange interessante funn som jeg har lyst, nei, plikt til å dele med dere.

Dagen starter på Bolteløkka i Oslo, i Martins og Ragnfrids leilighet, der Sara, Falk og jeg har søkt tilflukt fra livets stormer. Her følger det dramatiske døgnet minutt for minutt:

06:28 Falk står opp, ergo står jeg også opp. Jeg drikker kaffe mens Falk ser på Eliasbåten. Det blir skiftet totalt 1 bleie.

07:04 Jeg oppdager Aftenposten liggende på dørmåtten. Cathrine og Charlotte leverer en begrepsforvirret ingress som utløser dagens første arrogante hånlatter.

07:46 En dame jogger forbi utenfor vinduet.

07:52 Falk leker med biler. Jeg leker med noen pokersjetonger jeg fant på gaten dagen før.

08:07 Bossbilen kjører forbi. (Hvorfor har jeg notert dette?)

08:23 Falk ser på Ole Brumm. Jeg sniker meg til noens ukrypterte internett.

08:30 The sleeper has awakened! Endelig kan reportasjen begynne.

08:31 Jeg spør Martin: "Hva skal vi finne på idag?" Han svarer: "Jeg skal bare pisse først."

08:33 Syvsoveren Ragnfrid står opp.

08:42 Martin er allerede på Twitter. Han utbryter stolt: "Samfunnsredaktøren i Drammens Tidende mener jeg er kjapp i hue!"

08:49 Jeg gjør Martin oppmerksom på utopi/dystopi-tabben i Aftenposten. "Jeg må nesten sende den til sitatspalten," sier han. Utfra mine notater er det uklart om han faktisk gjør det, men han twitrer det i alle fall.

09:08 Martin brummer: "Hm. Frokost, kanskje. Frokost. Frokost." Han rydder opp i innboksen fra sin jobbmail og beklager seg over at folk legger ved 16mb bildefiler til pressemeldingene sine. Ragnfrid er bekymret for om min reportasje kan være til skade for Martins arbeidssituasjon. "Du må ikke røpe svakheter hos din arbeidgiver!" Martin mener han ikke gjør det.

09:10 Jeg lover Martin at han kan få gjennomlese reportasjen før jeg publiserer den, noe jeg selvfølgelig ikke har tenkt meg å la ham gjøre. Martin burde vite at SHÄDY ÄCRES står solid plantet i tradisjonen til den illegale pressen, og overhodet ikke tar hensyn til Vær Varsom-plakaten. Jeg skjønner ikke at han har gått med til dette. Han burde da vite bedre.

09:12 Martin starter uprovosert et håndgemeng med Falk, som han raskt taper: "Du må skrive opp at jeg er en snill onkel."

09:17 Jeg spør om jeg skal hjelpe med frokosten. "Nei, nei," svarer Martin, "Bare sitt der mens vi slaver for deg."

09:30 Sara står opp. Vi spiser frokost.

09:38 Under frokosten erklærer Ragnfrid: "Du må få med at han baker godt brød." Jeg skriver det øyeblikkelig ned. Ragnfrid: "Du må få med at jeg er mot hele filmen." Filmen? Ragnfrid tror av uransakelige årsaker at jeg kan lage en dokumentarfilm ved hjelp av en kulepenn.

09:40 Martin forteller en pussig anekdote om dengang vi etter å ha drukket 22 drinker ute på byen havnet på nachspiel hos vår venn pusheren, og jeg lot ham falle i søvn i en hengekøye uten å fortelle ham at det hang en fullvoksen kvelerslange i loftsbjelken rett over ham og stirret sultent på ham. Dette utløser en interessant prinsipiell debatt om sensur, og om min reportasje kan skade Martins omdømme eller arbeidssituasjon. Dette skal vise seg å være en tilbakevendende diskusjon.

10:17 Martin leker med Falk. Leken går ut på at Falk klasker til Martin og sier: "Åh neiiii. Åh neiiii." Jeg spør Falk: "Er det lov å slå onkel Martin?" Falk svarer tvilende: "Nei?"

Legg forresten merke til den gule bilen som er merket med teksten: AUSTRIA WILD (sic) og siluettbilder av kenguruer. WTF??

10:21 Jeg går i dusjen. Vannet er gloende varmt fordi termostaten er ødelagt. Martin forklarer senere at trikset er å la det varme vannet renne i håndvasken samtidig med at man dusjer. Det begynner å danne seg et bilde av en mann som ikke er så veldig opptatt av miljøet.

10:43 Da jeg kommer ut av dusjen sier Martin: "Det var de gøyeste 20 minutter i mitt liv. Synd du gikk glipp av det." Jeg lar meg ikke narre. Han har knapt beveget seg to sentimeter.

11:00 Jeg tar Falk med ut en tur, til lekeplassen på Bolteløkka skole, hvor vi sjarmerer en enslig mor med BdM-fletter.

11:31 Da vi kommer tilbake er Martin på telefonen. Da jeg spør Ragnfrid hvem han prater med svarer hun: "Han sa "hallaisen" da han tok den, så det er enten deg eller Trygve Svensson." Jeg deduserer meg frem til at det må være Trygve.

11:45 Hjemlig hygge ved PC/mac. Det skal snart vise seg at dette er en slags naturtilstand for bestanden i reservatet på Bolteløkka. Rett som det er søker de mot hver sin maskin, og så sitter de der og taster i skjønn harmoni. We can talk or not talk all night.

11:52 Martin går på badet. Hans morgentoalett består utelukkende av at han bruker munnskyll iherdig og lenge. Eksentrisk? Kanskje litt.

12:22 Jeg har notert: "Fortsatt PC/mac extravaganza", og det ser ut til å være en dekkende beskrivelse.

12:39 Martin og Sara skal en tur i vaskekjelleren. Underveis prøver Sara å stjele showet, og det klarer hun.

12:46 På vei opp fra vaskekjelleren får vi et glimt av den ikke særlig deprimerende bakgården.

12:49 Den samme damen jogger forbi igjen, motsatt vei denne gang. Har hun vært ute og jogget siden 07:46? Har hun jogget to turer? Oslo er i sannhet en gåtefull by. En by full av gåter, med andre ord.

12:59 Martindyret har allerede kledd på seg, og klokken er ikke engang ett om formiddagen.

13:o9 Martin og jeg forlater leiligheten, fordi jeg har mast meg til å få se hans arbeidsplass, selv om han fortsatt teknisk sett har ferie. På vei ut får Martin streng beskjed av Ragnfrid om å huske å se på malingsprøver på veien. Han glemmer det med det samme vi går ut døren.

13:12 Vi beveger oss i rask tempo mot Klassekampen. Martin er så sunn og frisk at det praktisk talt står skrevet "HELSE" i pannen på ham.

13:18 Vi passerer en gravlund. Hver gang jeg tar et bilde av Martin sier jeg: "Look pensive!"

13:20 Idyll i Telthusbakken. "Look pensive!"

13:23 Over Kuba bro til Grünerløkka. Martin sier: "Det er gøy å gå rundt og lese sitt eget navn over alt." (For våre uvitende lesere kan jeg nevne at mens deres forfedre satt dritings i fjæra og slo en fisk mot en stein, bygget Martins forfedre fabrikker langs Akerselven og drakk te med Mme Curie.)

13:27 Olaf Ryes Plass. Jeg doserer, som jeg har for vane, om Olaf Rye, Schleppegrell og den første slesvigske krig.

13:34 Pusher street. To afrikanske menn blir sjikanert av pinken. Jeg sjekker automatisk lommene før jeg kommer i tanke om at jeg ikke er svart. Phew! Jeg aner ikke hvor mange ganger det har reddet meg.

13:41 Ankomst Klasebomben. Vi tar heisen opp til den nederste av to lyse etasjer. Det ser ut som en vanlig avisredaksjon, bare at den er stappfull av livsfarlige kommunister. Martin leker guide mens vi går ned ad gangen: "Resepsjonen. Annonseavdelingen. Salg." En kvinnelig kollega stopper opp og det utveksles smalltalk. "Har ikke du egentlig ferie?" "Har ikke du egentlig ferie?" "Dette er min bror, han lager reportasje om meg." "Du må få med at vi er et ungt, dynamisk miljø!"

13:43 Opp en vindeltrapp til andre etasje. Martin har en konkurranse med en annen kollega om hvem som har hatt den beste dekningen av Trond Giskes sommer-pressekonferanse. Jeg blir oppfordret til å delta i avstemningen, men erklærer meg inhabil.

13:47 Dette er så Martins skrivebord. Hørselsvernet er for å stenge ute lyden av telefonsamtaler og intervjuer, påstår han. Jeg er ikke så sikker.

13:50 Han åpner sin post uten å lese den, han bare stønner og kaster det rett i pappkassen til resirkulering.

13:52 Martins sjef, redaktøren for bokmagasinet, dukker opp. Det er noe med disse Klassekampen-folkene, hun har egentlig også ferie, og likevel er hun her. Det kommer frem at hun leser SHÄDY ÄCRES, og hun roser(?) vårt bildemateriale som hun sier får henne til "nesten å miste troen på menneskeheten av og til". Da hun hører om min reportasje sier hun til Martin: "Da burde du gjøre noe skikkelig atypisk!"

13:58 Martin viser meg resten av etasjen: "Utenriks. Her står massasjestolen, du får ikke bilde av meg i den. Der sitter eksen til den-og-den. Sjefredaktørens kontor."

14:01 Vi forlater Klassekampen og haster bort til det nærmeste autoriserte utsalgssted for brennhet vegetar-samosa mens vi diskuterer hva vi kan komme på av atypiske gjøremål for Martin.

14:21 Da vi passerer strippeklubben l'amour foreslår jeg at vi går inn, for det ville jo være atypisk, men Martin sier bastant nei. Jeg kan ikke tolke det på annen måte enn at Martin til daglig frekventerer byens strippeklubber. Min gravende metode begynner å gi resultater.

14:51 Kaffe på Stockfleth's. Martin slår seg løs og bestiller en dobbelt cappuchino. En hyggelig bekjent av Martin, en relativt kjent tidligere Dagbladet-kommentator, kommer inn for å si hei. Hun minner Martin på at de skal på Øyafestivalen sammen, noe Martin har glemt/ikke blitt informert om av Ragnfrid. Vi diskuterer København, bandekrigen, forskjeller på Fremskrittspartiet og Dansk Folkeparti, muslimhets, størrelsen på Martins leilighet. "Hils Ragnfrid!" Hun går.

14:57 Martin antyder at han har mange kjendiser i sin omgangskrets. Ordene "XX XXXXXX XXXXX XXXX" blir gjentatt flere ganger.

15:00 Vi forlater Stockfleth's. På vei hjemover passerer vi Aschehoug og Gyldendal, "løvene på Sehesteds Plass". Jeg doserer, som jeg har for vane, om slaget ved Sehested. Martin forteller hvordan Dag Solstad som ung forfatter egentlig hadde bestemt seg for å levere sitt debutmanuskript til Gyldendal, men istedet gikk over gaten til Aschehoug fordi Gyldendals metaldør så lite innbydende ut, og ikke hadde en postkasse.

15:10 Tronsmo bokhandel. Martin må bare en liiiiten tur innom. Vi ser på Cormac McCarthys The Road, Antonio Negri og Michael Hardts Empire, og selvfølgelig David Foster Wallace. "Er han ikke død," spør jeg skjelmsk - jeg har jo som kjent flere ganger oppfordret Martin til å endre navnet på sin blogg til David Foster Wallace is Dead.

15:17 "Look pensive!" Etter den pålagte kvoten med intellektuell posering går vi ned i kjelleren og ser på tegneserier.

15:18 På vei ut av Tronsmo kommer Martin ved et uhell til å sparke Audun Vinger i akillessenen.

15:19 En gråhåret, bebrillet og svartkledd mann med et stort Karl Marx-fullskjegg og stygge tenner vender seg uprovosert etter oss på gaten og skriker av sine lungers fulle kraft: "DREP ALLE JØDER!!!" En dame spør oss: "Hva ropte han?" Vi svarer: "Drep alle jøder."

15:26 Litteraturhuset. Martin slår seg løs og drikker Farris. Som den mesteren i sosiale medier han er twitrer han straks om vårt møte med jødemannen.

15:30 Jeg har notert: "Sykkelparret er på Litteraturhuset." Dette kryptiske notatet viser til en hendelse dagen i forveien, da Sara og jeg hjalp et par på sykkel etter et uheld. Mannen, en englender, satte forhjulet fast i trikkesporet midt på Pilestredet og fløy over styret rett foran øynene på oss mens vi satt foran Mother India og ventet på take-away. Idag ser han relativt uskadd ut, bortsett fra en bandage på albuen. Har dette noen som helst interesse for min reportage? Neppe.

15:36 Jeg prøver å overtale Martin til å la meg gi ham en make-over for reportasjens skyld. Jeg foreslår at han f.eks. kan ta skjegget. Det kommer ikke på tale! Martin forteller en morsom anekdote om engang han hadde vært ute å reise, og hadde tatt barten. Da han møtte Ragnfrid brast hun i gråt og hulket: "Men hvor er min Martin?!" Priceless.

15:41 Martin får sterke og pludselige tannsmerter. "Jeg må snart til tannlegen," sier han, men opplyser at han ellers ikke har noen fyllinger i tennene. "Ingen?" spør jeg vantro. "Ingen" svarer han.

15:53 Etter en lengre diskussion om våre respektive helseplager beveger vi oss hjemover. Vi diskuterer TV-seriene The Wire, Band of Brothers og John Adams. En planlagt fotoseanse ved Bislett Stadion, med Martin i en skøyeraktig positur mellom statuene av Grete Waitz og Hjallis, avblåses fordi vi er for late til å krysse gaten.

16:03 Jotun Maling i Thereses Gate. Martin er i villrede. Han går for eggehvit og fire sjatteringer av grå.

16:20 Vi møter Sara og Falk tilfeldig på gaten.

16:21 Sara kan opplyse at Ragnfrid ikke er hjemme, hun har blitt hentet av en høy, lys mann i limousin. Dette liker Martin dårlig.

16:28 I butikken prøver Martin flere ganger å ringe til Ragnfrid for råd og veiledning, men får ikke tak i henne, hvilket fører til at vi kommer hjem med fire frossenpizzaer og en sekspakning.

16:38 Tilbake på Bolteløkka. Ragnfrid har kommet hjem, og har kjøpt inn råvarer til torskemiddag. Hun insisterer på at hun slett ikke ble hentet av en høy, lys mann i limousin, men snarere en lav, mørk venninne på sykkel. Det blir sammenliknet fargeprøver. Øyafestivalen diskuteres. Lily Allen, Madness, Datarock, Doves, Ungdomsskulen, Jenny Wilson, Røyksopp, Farmers Market, Bob Hund, Karin Park.

16:42 Velkommen til Ragnfrids tidsmaskin, endestasjon "Urnorge".

16:49 Martin feilinnstiller ovnen som skal forvarmes til pizzasteking. Ragnfrid kaller ham en "Skjettpeis".

16:51 Ragnfrid opplyser: "Det dere ikke har gjort idag, som er dagligdags for Martin, er å sykle. Martin er en syklingens mann. Rett som det er tar han seg en tur rundt Maridalsvannet og føler på friheten." Føler på friheten? Føler på friheten?!

16:55 Martin lurer på om det kanskje var David Weiss som ropte etter oss på gaten?

17:00 Man diskuterer jubileet for månelandingen.

17:09 Martin hamrer en frossenpizza inn i fryseboksen med full kraft. Ragnfrid er kritisk til at jeg fotograferer frossenpizzaen. Folk kunne jo få den vanvittige ideen at hun og Martin spiser frossenpizza, argumenterer hun.

17:14 Martin glemmer å holde øye med pizzaen, som blir lettere svidd fordi han er opptatt med å gå i dialog med en FrP-politiker om Stieg Larssons forfatterskap på Facebook.

17:21 Falk spiser bordet.

17:22 Da Ragnfrid blir fortalt om vårt møte med jødemannen utbryter hun: "Dette er et sånt Mikkel Grüner-univers," og det blir man jo nesten nødt til å gi henne rett i.

17:25 Martin må gå på Lauritz.com "for å by på et skap vi har lyst på. Det er oppe i to tusen ett."

17:30 Etterpå viser Martin slideshow fra sin Flickr account, av bilder tatt på turen til Jotunheimen. Ja, jeg velger å skrive Flickr account i to ord. Og "slideshow" er i denne sammenhengen et bedre ord enn "lysbildefremvisning." Slutt å mase.

17:41 Et ømt øyeblikk.

17:46 Den fredfylte harmonien varer helt til Martin kommer med ufine kommentarer om Ragnfrids derierre, og etterpå ved et uhell velter et glass vann over sin PC.

17:50 Ragnfrid leser for Falk.

17:51 Martin spiller guitar. Det er ikke så vondt å høre på som det pleier, utrolig nok. Det går opp for meg at han har blitt bedre. Hm.

17:59 Falk får et trassanfall. Martin går i kjelleren for å sjekke klærne.

18:12 Ragnfrid lufter for første gang tanken om at Martin kanskje ville hatt godt av å løpe en tur. Martin svarer ikke. Han er opptatt på maskinen.

18:13 Ragnfrid: "Martin, Martin... Du virker helt tapt for denne verden." Martin: "Hva var det jeg skulle gjøre??"

18:32 Ragnfrid vil diskutere ruten for en eventuell løpetur. Martin virker ikke umiddelbart særlig begeistret. Ragnfrid: "Martin? Martin!" Martin: "Hva? Hva? Hva? JEG LESER!!"

18:47 Jeg oppfanger subtile signaler om at Martin kanskje begynner å bli litt lei hele mitt prosjekt.

18:52 Krangel oppstår da Ragnfrid insisterer på at Martin må skifte til treningstøy. Han reiser seg opp med et sukk, går inn på soverommet, lukker døren, er der inne kanskje 2 sekunder før han kommer triumferende ut igjen iført treningstøy, som Supermann fra en telefonkiosk: "Sånn. Er du fornøyd nå?"

18:53 Deretter setter han seg rett ned igjen og begynner å spille guitar. Klassisk Martin.

19:12 Vi er klar. Vi løper.

Tidsangivelse mangler: Martin og Ragnfrid er i utmerket form. Vi løper vel en 5-6 km nordover før vi kommer opp på toppen av en bakke med utsikt over byen. Vi tar push-ups, sit-ups. Ragnfrid forteller at Stoltenboobies bor et sted i nærheten, og røper at hennes drøm er å eie en villa her i området.

Tidsangivelse mangler: På vei tilbake får Martin en flue i øyet. Martin og jeg løper i forveien, gjemmer oss, sniker oss inn på Ragnfrid etter hun har passert oss, og skremmer henne. Vi ser en kvinne som jeg blir fortalt er redaktøren for Prosa.

20:28 Retur Bolteløkka.

20:29 I'm the kind of nigga that's built to last.

20:42 Martin er på nett nesten før vi er gjennom døren. Det blir klart at de har tapt nettauksjonen om skapet. Well boo hoo hoo.

20:49 Martin planlegger å gå i dusjen.

20:54 Martin går i dusjen. Det kommer ikke på tale å ta bilder av ham.

21:15 Martin kommer ut av dusjen.

21:17 Sara og Ragnfrid konspirerer på kjøkkenet.

21:20 Jeg går i dusjen.

21:22 Jeg kommer ut av dusjen.

21:33 Krangel oppstår pga. Martins borddekning, jfr. foto.

21:37 Vi spiser en herlig torskemiddag som Sara har tilberedt av Ragnfrids råvarer. Vi diskuterer religion i barnehagen, pornografi, Cupido, den erotiske novelle som sjanger.

22:23 Martin rydder av bordet.

22:29 Martin vasker opp.

22:42 Ragnfrid tilbereder dessert av jordbær, vaniljekesam og rød pepper.

Martin tok dette bildet, da jeg var ved å overføre fra kameraet da desserten kom på bordet.

23:52 Etter desserten har noen av oss lyst å spille Davoserjazz, men det oppstår et konsensus om at vi snart må gå og legge oss. Martin spiller "Blackbird" på guitaren.

00:00 Hvem er denne karen? Hva er det som motiverer ham? Varfor gör han på detta viset?

00:01 Og ikke minst: Hva har vi lært? Har vi kommet nærmere en forståelse av hvem denne Martin Grüner Larsen er i løpet av dagen? Svaret må bli et rungende "Nei!"

Det kan se stygt ut som om jeg har sløst bort en hel dag av mitt dyrebare liv til ingen nytte. Martin må forbli et uløst mysterium.

Men noe har blitt tydeligere, selvom vi jo visste det fra før: Martin er et unikum; en mann alle liker, en mann uten fiender. Martin er noe så sjelden som en hedersmann.

Hurra for Martin! La oss oppkalle en gate etter ham. La oss innføre en offentlig flaggdag i hans navn, for finere menneske har jeg faen meg aldri møtt. Og det er ikke bare noe jeg sier fordi jeg er hans bror.

It'll have to do for now

2009-07-21T10:48:00.001+02:00

Assorterte agurker

2009-07-17T09:57:00.002+02:00

Burde det ikke heller hete "Sweden Cup"? Tenk at Norge er så spesielt og vidunderlig et land at andre nasjoner oppkaller fotballturneringer etter oss. Vi er faen meg heldige "her på berget" med "nisseluen" og "janteloven" og "penisfutteralet" (Eller vent, det siste var kanskje mer Borneo).

Det beste med ikke å lese nettaviser er man kan få journalister til å dø. Av sult.

Ja, jeg kender følelsen, var jeg lige ved at sige. Men i mit tilfælde er "tævet til døde i Canada" en eufemisme for "bor i Norge".

"Rimelig ukendt" for politiet betyder sikkert "brun".

Jenter, spar heller den orale møydommen deres til kristne gutter med sunne verdier, som Filip Rygg el. likn., da unngår dere genital herpes. Eller dere kan komme til meg hvis dere vil herpes genialt.

Fortvilende profiler. Fortvilende profiler. Fortvilende profiler. Si det 20 ganger.

Jeg hadde aldri hørt om denne drikken før BT gjorde meg oppmerksom på den, men nå skal jeg faen meg løpe rett ut og kjøpe tolv flasker. (Denne gangen må jeg huske å ta bukser på først).

YES! Vi vinner!

2009-07-15T08:10:00.002+02:00

Ta den, Somalia. BURRRRN!!! Tsing. Taperaktig å komme sist på listen. Hvis du kommer fra Somalia er du en skikkelig taper, ass. T-A-P-E-R. Litt sånn: Somalia. Eh. Ufresht.

The last book on Earth

2009-07-14T17:50:00.004+02:00

This may be the last book. All these books will disappear. No,
I am not prepared to make an exact prediction of when or where,
But books will cease to exist, as all things cease; eventually.
Think about it: Have you received many telegrams lately?

You can't reach the dodo by e-mail. His number is not in use.
Still, poetry may presumably outlive her younger, uglier sibling,
At least in printed form, for poets are mostly sentimental types.
Also: Some cultures or classes may hold on to their books longer

Than others. Books may become rare & prized objects to the very
Civilizations which abandon them first, while still cheaply made
And circulated in the poorest regions of the world. The truly rich
Never burn their candles for the same reasons as do the truly poor.

There will be that final book, therefore; that last book on Earth.
But in what sense? The last book printed? The last book published?
Or: The last book read, the last reading (...) Or: The last actually
Remaining book, the last book in existence, hidden among the bones

And garbage, half buried in the beige sands and gray ashes,
Pages flapping in gusts of contaminated air. A phone directory
For a dead city, say. Or: The last scribble made by a man,
Or something similar to a man. Or: The last book-like device,

Some electronic tablet, transparent screen like cellophane,
Crisp sanskrit fading as the battery dies. 2 weeks from now,
Blind meteors may collide with this our green Earth, turning it into
A single ball of fire. On the shelf of some Antarctic research station

One scientific diary may burn marginally slower, making it
For a nanosecond: The last book on Earth. The last book on Earth
May be a bible or a pornographic novel. The last book on Earth
May be less than the magic 200 pages. It may even be more properly

Described as a magazine. Farther out there can be other races,
They can have their “language”, their “writing” and their “books”,
They can keep their copies of the many postcards we've mailed them
Over the years, using rocket fuel for stamps. But no more books for us.

No more detective stories in the hammock. What you hear as
The quiet buzzing of bumble bees is in reality the battle of workers
Evicting fat drones from the nest. Turn the page and put the book down.
Summer is ended when you know who committed the murder.

It's a holiday in Cambodia

2009-07-14T11:19:00.000+02:00

I should be so lucky. It's a holiday in Stöckfisck.

Tre husarer

2009-06-22T14:50:00.006+02:00

Jeg læste i avisen her forleden at endnu tre danske soldater er faldet i Afghanistan, som ofre for endnu en vejsidebombe. Med disse tre er de danske tabstal kommet op på 25, et selvmord og et hjerteanfald inklusive. Jeg ville egentlig ikke sige noget om det, da det på mere end én måde er et minefelt at begive sig ud på, indtil jeg læste et udmærket digt af Klaus Rifbjerg, som jeg så alligevel følte fortjente et slags svar.

Lad det først være sagt at jeg er mod krigen i Afghanistan, hvis man da overhovedet kan kalde det en krig. Jeg er mod dansk og norsk deltagelse i de amerikanskledede operasjoner fordi jeg ikke ønsker at våre væbnede styrker skal være et instrument for en tvivlsom amerikansk udenrigspolitik, fordi jeg af pricipielle grunde er mod medlemskab i NATO, osv, osv. Jeg er en god socialist.

Men jeg er ikke pacifist, og jeg aftjente min værnepligt som sergent i hæren. De tre danske soldaters dødsfald rørte mig derfor, som altid, og så meget desto mere fordi det igen var soldater fra mit eget gamle regiment, Gardehusarregimentet, der faldt.

Når jeg nævner for mine venner, eller mine partikamerater, at vi igen har mistet nogle af våre soldater – for de er våre! – så får jeg ofte et svar jeg ikke er tilfreds med: Ja det er jo forfærdeligt, men vi skulle aldrig have været der i udgangspunktet.

Nej, det kan s'gu da godt være, men det er det forkerte svar!

Det er som om hvert tab mister sin betydning, opløses, og bliver til et argument i den diskussion der gik forud for krigen. Ja, det var en diskussion vi tabte fordi man løj for os. Nej, vi skulle aldrig have invaderet Afghanistan, i hvert fald ikke under de forudsætninger, ikke inden for rammerne af en koalition af bedragere og løgnere.

Men nu er vi der. Vi står der, og det er faktisk os der står der. Jeg ved at for mange på venstresiden er Forsvaret ligsom ikke rigtig os, det er de andre, noget fremmed og reaktionært, en slags krigsliderlig, kryptofascistisk sekt. Man ser et kornet billede af en dum, blond knægt i uniform og tænker: ”Han stemmer sikkert på Dansk Folkeparti.”

Sådan er det ikke for mig. Det er ikke det jeg ser. Jeg var socialist da jeg gik ind i hæren, jeg var socialist da jeg kom ud på den anden side som befalingsmand, og jeg har ingen vanskeligheder ved at forlige de to. Jeg ved af erfaring at man sagtens kan stå vagt for dronningen mens man står vagt for republikken i sit hjerte.

Jeg mødte gode og dårlige mennesker i løbet af min tid i hæren, officerer og befalingsmænd såvel som menige, og både moralsk og politisk var de så forskellige som ellers i det samfund de var udgået fra. Dette var i efterdønningerne af krigene på Balkan, et andet tragisk, amerikansk krigseventyr som Danmark havde ladet sig trække ind i.

Nogle af mine bedste soldaterkamerater havde helt afvigende synspunkter fra mine egne. Mange var højreorienterede. Mange var socialdemokrater. Mange var apolitiske. Nogle var socialister, som jeg selv. Meget få var regelrette fascister, selvom de da absolut fandtes.

Der blev diskuteret politik på alle niveauer, som overalt i samfundet ellers. Jeg kan huske engang på en øvelse uventet at komme over to gamle seniorsergenter som havde gået afsides for at skændes højlydt om detaljerne i Maastricht-traktaten.

Hvor vil jeg hen? Jeg vil ikke begive mig ind på en runde med kvalmende, nationalpornografisk onani, sådan som man kan læse det i pressen, hvor en soldats død beskrives med samme sadistiske nydelse som en gruppevoldtægt. Men jeg vil sige dette: Forsvaret er ikke lavet af symboler, abstraktioner, robotter. Det er lavet af mennesker, af drenge.

Våbenmagten er et redskab i hænderne på de folkevalgte, og underlagt folkets vilje, og det er godt sådan, selvom folket kan tage fejl. Jeg forbander ikke kniven, men hånden der fører den.

Soldater har meninger, de har stemmeret, de tror og de tvivler – men som borgere, aldrig som soldater, og det er godt sådan. Som soldater gør de hvad de bliver beordret til. De kan være uenige, men de klapper hælene sammen og siger ”Javel!” og det er godt sådan.

De går derhen hvor man peger, og de angriber det de får besked om at angribe, og de forsvarer det de får besked om at forsvare, og det er godt sådan.

Det gør de til deres Soldatenglück løber ud, og så dør de der hvor vi har fortalt dem at de skal dø. De har ikke bedt om, og har ikke brug for, at vi giver dem syndernes forladelse.

Skål for tre husarer som faldt, og skål for deres kamerater.

Jeg vil gerne citere en passage fra Johannes Helms' erindringer fra den første slesvigske krig, Soldaterliv i Krig og Fred for en Menneskealder siden (1889). Han beskriver en episode fra kampene ved Gudsø, den 7. maj 1849:

”Iøvrigt var der Noget, der i det Øjeblik fængslede min Opmærksomhed langt mere end Majoren og hans Tale. Da la Cour forlod Landevejen for at ride hen til os, lod han tre Husarer, der fulgte ham som Ordonnantser, holde ude paa Landevejen, saa at sige midt imellem de to heftig engagerede Halvbatterier, hvor de fjendtlige Granater haglede ned over dem, skjønt de ved at ride tyve Skridt til Siden kunde være komne under forholdsvis Dækning.

Jeg kunne ikke få mine Øjne fra de tre Ryttere. Ubevægelige sade de på Hestene med Front mod den fjendtlige Ild. Engang imellem gjorde en af Hestene et Sidespring eller et Tilløb til at rejse sig paa Bagbenene, når en Granat kom hvislende forbi, men Rytteren tvang den med hurtige Bevægelser tilbage, og atter sade de som Støtter av Malm.

Det var som om denne Scene, der omgav dem, ikke kom dem ved, der var kun én Ting, der kom dem ved, at holde på den Plads, der var dem anvist, at gøre deres Pligt.

Jeg har ofte tænkt på de tre Husarer paa Landevejen ved Gudsø, og der har været den Tid, da jeg har maattet minde mig selv om de tre unge Mænd, der, skjønt det ikke saa ud til at være til nogen Nytte, dog sade rolig paa Hesten midt i den voldsomme Ild, fordi de gjorde deres Pligt. Jeg blev lettere om Hjertet, da jeg saae dem alle tre uskadte ride derfra.”

If you meet the Buddha on the road -

2009-06-21T12:15:00.005+02:00

You know what to do.

SHÄDY ÄCRES danner Vokternes Råd

2009-06-21T09:09:00.004+02:00

Dette rotet kan ikke fortsette. Noen må ta styringen. Derfor har vi bestemt oss for å danne Vokternes Råd.

Alt er veldig demokratisk: Noen av dere har allerede blitt utnevnt, så dere trenger ikke å sende søknad. Dere andre kan skrive en liten levnedsbeskrivelse i kommentarfeltet. Si gjerne noe om hvorfor dere synes et politisk stasis er "revolusjonært". Det hjelper også om dere har festet hele natten med en Ayatollah.

Målsettingen er å ha dette Vokternes Råd-greiene oppe og kjøre innen onsdag/torsdag neste uke, så få fingeren ut. Takk.

En samfunnsdebattants bekjennelser

2009-06-20T18:58:00.008+02:00

Har jeg din oppmerksomhet? Ble du nysgjerrig av den listige overskriften min? Lurer du på hvem nazihoren er, og hvem som skal ta henne? Da må du lure lenge, for her står det ingenting om nazihorer.

Det var bare noe jeg fant på. Ha ha! Tenk at du falt for det gamle trikset. Du er visst ikke bortskjemt med seriøs journalistikk, hva?

Egentlig ville jeg snakke om noe helt annet: Det ryktes at jeg er sitert i Dagbladet. Opplysningene er vanskelige å etterprøve, da jeg for tiden boikotter denne brochuren, men hvis det medfører riktighet er det første gang de nevner meg siden våren 1992 ("187 biler utsatt for hærverk i Bergen").

Jeg antar at dere plebeiere som aldri har blitt sitert i Dagbladet bare sånn halvveis forstår rekkevidden av denne skjellsettende hendelsen, og den eleverte status den medfører. Yes – nye visittkort med teksten: Mikkel Grüner - sentral samfunnsdebattant er allerede bestilt.

Når jeg fra nå av uttaler meg offentlig vil det være med samme tyngde som en Hanne Nabintu Herland, en Nina Karin Monsen, en Vampus eller en Snåsamann. Jeg vil forlange respekt for mine synspunkter, uansett hvor outrerte de måtte virke på allmuen. Man er da tross alt samfunnsdebattant.

Siden vi nå snakker om samfunnsdebatt: Jeg tok meg en liten samfunnsdebatt her om dagen. Vi var en del sentrale samfunnsdebattanter som drev og debatterte litt om samfunnet. Som vanlig brukte vi sosiale media - i dette tilfellet var det Twitter, men det kunne like gjerne vært på en blogg, eller på Facebook eller Myspace eller LiveJournal – uansett så falt snakken på Dagbladet.

Vi luftet synspunktene våre i en frisk og åpen debatt, uten å la oss kue av smålige konvensjoner, og etterpå så twittret jeg litt om hva vi var kommet frem til. Som alle samfunnsdebattanter vet er det viktig å bruke #hashtags i samfunnsdebatten, og derfor tagget jeg tweetsene mine med #Dagbladet. Lite ante jeg at de frekke Dagbladet-journalistene sto på lur for å stjele mine tweets! De ville vist ha litt samfunnsdebatt på sine sider, og det er jo greit, men kan de ikke spørre først?

Ikke nok med at de stjal tweetsene mine, søren meg om de ikke klaget på innholdet og stilte spørsmålstegn ved kildene mine! Tweetsene mine utløste nemlig sporenstreks en utveksling av DM (det betyr Director's Massage, for dere plebeiere som ikke er hip to the beat on the corner of the street) med en journalist.

Jeg har skjult identiteten til Dagbladet-journalisten, ikke fordi han sa noe han burde skamme seg over, men fordi DM er en ytterst privat og intim kommunikasjon, nærmest som et stjålent kyss i en mørk låve med din fjortenårige kusine:

Jeg har ennå ikke hørt noe fra dem, men venter svar en av dagene. Det blir veldig spennende å høre hvilke #hashtags Dagbladet har kjøpt rettighetene til. Jeg holder en knapp på #nazihore, #pedohore, #forhud, #islamkritikk og #krigsbombe.

Vi ses i samfunnsdebatten!

Kontemplasjoner

2009-06-20T17:00:00.002+02:00

"Fuglen bæsjet på dissen."

"Det er elven. Den er veldig våt."

"Falk sitter. Eg sitter."

"Fluen er død."

More shitty drawings

2009-06-20T01:17:00.004+02:00