Remedy for a snot factory

Instead of giving Stockholm a more than well-deserved verbal whack in the ass for inexcusably idiotic behavior (I seem to attract it like a magnet), I'd like to give the world something positive.

Having been sick a few weeks ago I remembered something that has has helped me out before, so here's a household remedy for head colds, a cough and/or fever that several people can attest to. In other words, it actually works! Forget soup, the next time you get that heavy feeling in your chest, you have a fever or your nose turns into a natural snot tap, this is what you need (or ask someone else to get when you're lying incapacitated on the couch):

-fresh ginger
-as much water as you like
-(for taste) milk, honey and/or lemon juice

Take the fresh piece of ginger and cut of a small chunk a little less than half the size of your thumb. Peel it and then cut it into smaller pieces. Boil the ginger bits in some water for five to ten minutes and then let it seep for a few minutes more.

After that, you're done! I will be honest, drinking the concoction straight will not be a pleasant experience (unless you love ginger), so adding a little milk, honey and even lemon juice will make it more drinkable. You can adjust and add more or less ginger, more or less water, have it seep longer or shorter...it's all up to you. After drinking a cup or two of this you'll start to feel better the day after, so drink it as soon as possible and the symptoms will be a lot more bearable.

The King's Garden

So it's three in the afternoon. People are walking around with light clothes, happy faces and everyone has their sunglasses on. While on our way to sit in a park with the fantastic italian ice cream melting in our hands my friends and I notice a few white and flourescent yellow police motorcycles buzz by. Then the street becomes entirely empty save a motorcade of three black SUVs and more of the white and flourescent cop bikes, now blocking the intersection. My friends and I look at each other as the motorcade rolls on by, cop bikes whizzing around and past it. And what could possibly be so important that three black vehicles need a fleet of police bikes as an escort? We have no idea. The body guards looking out from the windows on the vehicles all look like agents from The Matrix, black sunglasses and all. After a moment the white and flourescent yellow cop bikes blocking the intersection zoom ahead and the traffic floods back into the street and everyone goes back to looking happy in their sunglasses.

Being able to cross the street again we come to the park and sit down in a sort of circle made out granite ledges that people are sitting on. In the middle stands a tower-like sculpture with steps and more people. Some temporary tents that a few construction workers were setting up also stand in middle, which wouldn't be of any consequence exept for the apparent deal that was going down right there, apparently turning very messy. An argument breaks out in the middle of the circle over the contents (or lack of contents) of a backpack.

It wouldn't have been a such a big deal if it hadn't been for the other two groups of young guys sitting on two seperate ledges. The two arguing walk away from the tent area in the middle and we think it's all cool again and everyone can go back to being happy in their sunglasses when one of guys jerks his arm back and smacks the other guy in the face with his elbow. The apparent victim makes a retreat back to his crew while the other makes a go for the nearest trash bin, rummages around and digs out a glass bottle. Everyone else is sitting around in the circle, quite calm in their sunglasses and my friends and I start to discuss that it would be a good idea to make an emergency call then and there. Children are playing and laughing, people are sitting and talking, the construction workers are busy putting up the tents with big aluminum poles, two big groups of young guys are watching a deal go sour and then garbage man ditches the bottle for a nearby pole.

One of my friends makes the call.

"There's a fight in Kungsträdgården", she says while garbage-man takes a swoop at his mark. Ditching the pole he then makes a round to every garbage can and we decide to bounce before he reaches us. Most just sit there and the tent workers seem to go on without noticing what was going on.

"Besides the two that are fighting it's pretty calm, but their friends are right there and it looks like they might join in any time. I don't know, but there are kids playing around here, can't you just send a car?"

"They said it's not serious enough", she says while shaking her head.

Escorting a foreign dignitary with more than a dozen cops to block off rush-hour traffic in the middle of the city is evidently much more important than staving off a possible drug-fueled gang fight in a populated public park. A few minutes later we throw away our sticky paper cups and plastic spoons and notice a white and flourescent yellow motorcycle creep it's way into the park and by that time we only hope that more people have called instead of just looking happy in their sunglasses. Later that night we find out that someone gets stabbed in the park. But apparently it's not serious enough.

Experience shows once again why the swedish police need some stategy changes. I say once again because while Sweden and Stockholm are in many ways wonderful places to live and work, being a relative plethora of social benefits, the legal system and police force are in dire need of lessons in not being jackasses. You could devote an entire blog alone to why the swedish judicial system hasn't left the nineteenth century in their rulings on rape cases. You have to wonder exactly what our tax money is being spent on and what's serious enough.

Crunching ears

The ear is not a good place for toilet paper. And it's definitely not a good idea to stuff wads of toilet paper into your ears and use it as a substitute for earplugs. The reason I know this is because I've been getting up at four, four-thirty in the morning for work for the past week. Add the fact that all my friends I've tried to come into contact with have ignored phone calls and text messages for the past several days and it becomes a very lonely and trying week, topped off with having toilet paper stuck in my right ear.

Today, Friday, has been the only day to sleep in this week since I have to get up so early every other day, including Saturday and Sunday. Having turned off my alarm clock and cell phone last night so as being able to enjoy heavenly sleep undisturbed until I decide to get up, it wasn't very fun to be woken up this morning at eight to the sound of a chainsaw right outside. And it wasn't just regular every day usage, it was a repeated pulse every ten seconds for fourty-five minutes. Not just using it every now and again for awhile, but using it at regular intervals of about ten seconds for fourty-five minutes. It's about as irritating as having having a mosquito buzzing in your ear regularly every ten seconds for fourty five minutes. After waking up at such godforsakenly early hours the past week and having do the same on Saturday and Sunday, I was desperate for a solution, and the regular bright yellow foam earplugs usually lying around the house were mysteriously gone. At that time it was just the natural thing to do, using toilet paper.

After falling asleep again and waking up later, one wad had already fallen out of one ear. The other was still there and apparently had snuck a little further in. After carefully using a q-tip to coax the bugger out I succeeded only in pushing it in a little further. After realizing that it might be really stuck in there the only other option left was to call the local medical center. Being full there, I was referred to the nearest hospital. This wasn't fun since I would have to wait a long time to get to a doctor and by that time the little wad of toilet paper was starting to make a soft crunching noise in my ear, kind of like hearing your teeth crunch down on something hard when you chew. That's what I heard every time I opened my mouth. Crunch crunch. Crunch Crunch.

After registering my visit at the hospital at about 12:45 the nurse said that it would be okay if I left the building for an hour. "Okay", I said. Crunch crunch. Crunch crunch. They would call if it would be any earlier. So I left and ate lunch and came back after two hours. During this time it dawned on me that all of my friends I had tried to contact during the past five days hadn't responded at all, which reminded me of the typical stockholm strategy: They never call anyone, and if you contact them then everyone will say that they're too busy to do anything. Or too poor. Or they are too tired. Or their grandma is coming to visit.

Back at the hospital waiting room I recieved two text messages out of the blue, only to discover that they were sent to the wrong number. It wasn't fun, sitting there in the hospital waiting room with a wad of toilet paper in my right ear on my only free day this week, 260 swedish crowns (about $25 US) poorer because I wanted to get some sleep and the only person to contact me did it because of a wrong number.

Having bearly heard my name called the doctor pulled out the wad in about five seconds. Then he vacuumed out all the small scraps left. Five minutes later, at three-fourtyfive, I left the hospital minus the crunching toilet paper. As I was walking home a little girl with an ice-cream cone said "hi!" to me with an ear-to-ear smile, totally covered in melted ice cream. It was one of those moments where you can't help but smile back and laugh a little. "Hi!", I said back. Thinking of all the problems that the other people sitting there in the hospital waiting room had, a little ball of toilet paper on my only free day this week was quite okay.

I think we're alone now

From the time I was a wee kid up until only a couple of years ago, I would be lying in bed and scared. Sometimes too scared to sleep. Yeah, that scared. A phobia. Something that stiffens the body and contorts the mind into a quivering wreck. Not a phobia of falling asleep, not of shadows, the boogie-man, not a phobia of ants or spiders possibly crawling up into my nose while I'm asleep. It would make me look out the window every now and again, open my eyes just one last time. It got pretty bad sometimes. Other kids were afraid of monsters under their beds. Later, other people my age were afraid of a robber breaking in. I was afraid of aliens. Extraterresterials. Little gray men.

I know a friend who has an almost morbid fear of being in high buildings and flying, not because of the long fall down, but because of being "closer" to the sky. That goes to show that phobias aren't rational at all. What do you call fear of aliens? Xenophobia is already taken. I'm college educated in the social sciences and am sceptical to organized religion. There should be no room for this.

It's just too easy to imagine what would happen. There would be no bright lights, no shaking of the room, no mystical wind blowing sheets of school work around. There would be a feeling of just somehow knowing there's something out there. Just knowing a hunk of unearthly metal is floating silently outside and little gray beings are walking toward the building. Not ET's, not the X-files aliens. Little gray lanky beings with no clothes, big black slanty eyes and warm, dry skin that feels like fine sandpaper when they run their long fingers down your body. The way I thought about it, Mulder got one thing right: you can't move. Can't do anything, really. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. If you're lucky you won't remember a thing afterwards.

Even though I don't like scary movies I can watch them. Horror, no problem. Psychological thrillers, even better. Bloody action, oh yeah. Movies about abductions, I'd rather take a shower in lemon juice and then dry myself off with a grater. I tried watching the movie "Signs" by myself at night but it didn't work. Mercifully I could rid myself of this only about two years ago by hard mental work-outs.

Only one question remains: how exactly do you treat fear of aliens otherwise? If you're afraid of spiders, you go through cognitive behavior therapy by coming into close contact with spiders so you don't lie in bed at night afraid that one is going to crawl up your nose when you're asleep.

...but this takes the cake

After a fairly drab Mayday I decided to pay a visit to my favorite humor site and had my day totally turned around. Some things are just too funny to not be shared.

Dragspelsvåld

I några år nu har man som flitig pendeltågsresenär kunnat åka tåg och råka ut för musik på tåget. Bara som en tanke....jag tycker personligen att man borde kunna få spela musik varsomhelst i stan för att liva upp det bittra och tråkiga offentliga rummet som Stockholm har ibland. Vill man stanna till och lyssna eller ge en slant så är det bara att slänga slanten i mynthögen och njuta, eller så kan man gå därifrån om man vill. Men så fort man kliver på ett pendel- eller tunnelbanatåg så finns det ingenstans att ta vägen. Efter att ha slitit på jobbet eller plugget så sätter man sig med en suck av lättnad i sätet och stänger ögonen för att vila de där dyrbara minuterna innan man ska ta sista delsträckan hem, men så fort man kopplar av så kommer någon med ett dragspel och hackar sönder ens förhoppningar att kunna unna sig den där dyrbara vilan. Eller så måste konversationen man har med nån sluta eller bli jäkligt ansträngd. Grrr.

Spela musik får man göra var man vill tycker jag, bara man inte våldför sig på andra med den. Så det så.

A deeper dish served best cold

(WARNING!!! This post reveals plot endings in Kill Bill pt 1 & 2. Those who haven't seen them yet and want to read this post at their own risk...)

On tv a few months ago in Sweden the two parts of Kill Bill were shown in their entirety. As well as reaffirming my opinion that these are two fantastic films I couldn't help thinking a little more about the story of revenge, other movies that show it, and who people are. That's why I just have write why I love these two movies, aside from the fact that they are cooler than hell, and hopefully without glorifying the rivers of bloodshed. You have to admit that Mr. Tarantino could make accounting look like the coolest job in the world.

You have to go almost all the way to the end of the second part to get to the core why Bill decided to bust a cap in The Bride's veiled head on the day of her wedding with her new guy and a baby on the way. In one of the more interesting pop-culture metaphors in the movie-world Bill makes a camparison between the Bride and Superman that suddenly makes every other story of revenge as shallow as the Bush Administration's reasons for shedding blood in Iraq. After shooting The Bride with a truth antidote Bill asks her about her quest to get to Bill and why she decided to leave her position as a world-class assassin to live the quiet life of being a mother and wife in a podunk town in the middle of nowhere.

Herein comes the Superman theory that Mr. Tarantino so eloquently scripted and David Carradine's Bill nailed. In the comic world Superman is the only character to have to have been born with his superpowers (comic book buffs are more than welcome to come with other ideas since I'm not really into comic books to begin with). Spiderman or any other superhero is not born with their superpowers but acquire them somehow after an accident or some incident. But Superman is born with his abilities and has to mask them behind a regular gray suit and thick black glasses to be normal in the real world. Clark Kent is the alias and Superman, or whatever his real name is on his home planet, is the real character. The same goes for The Bride, explains Bill while wielding a piece in his hand. The Bride is a born killer that for some reason masked herself behind a veil and lived as someone else. Based on this theory, Bill wants to know why she left him.

The Bride's answer was that once she found out she would be a mother she would have to leave the business and become someone else. But after she woke up from a bullet-induced coma and thinking she was no longer a mother, that's when she decided to beat a bloody path to Bill's door. Under the effects of the truth syrum she even admits that she enjoyed every dripping minute of it. When the The Bride wonders why Bill did what he did, he responds by saying he's also like her. That's what happens when you piss off a born killer.

After seeing the end of pt. 2 you can compare to other movies that have to with revenge and in that light they end up being flat. Take for example Princess, a Danish animated movie where a priest discovers that his sister, a porn starlet, dies in the throes of the industry and decides to take care of her five-year-old daughter. He then decides to take an equally bloody adenture to get to the man he holds responsible for his sister's death. There's no real explanation of why he does it, he just goes out and whacks people, sometimes even reluctantly with the little girl's help. There's an obvious moral here against the mainstream porn industry, but what about the story behind it? Is he trying to confront inner conflicts between christian values and lust for blood? Was he a killer before he became a priest? You just don't know. At least Bill and The Bride revealed for each other who they really are. Those who have seen other movies of revenge, like Old Boy, are more than welcome to voice their opinions in light of Tarantino's Superman theory.

I think you could almost say the same for real people too...not revenge, but the fact that some people just are who they are, and the things they do and what happens to them depends a lot on what social context they're in (in a way kind of like what I've tried to explain about being chronically single in the first post of this blog.) You are who you are. Which is more than what could be said about other revenge movies.