The tradition that started with my dad taking the boys to the annual motorcycle exhibition back in the mid-80s was yet again extended in glorious fashion by myself getting blinded by the chrome. There is just something about the combo of two wheels and an engine that turns me, the ghost rider, into a merry little boy. The girls posing on the bikes may have something to do with it, but I don’t know. Some strange unidentifiable stirring in the pants, thou, at the Honda stand. They went all out this year… and I mean all OUT. Happy with Honda, indeed.
The perfect metal sculpture, the tool of the rebel, the real definition of speed. I think I’ve missed one exhibition in 20 years… which was last year after getting all killed and broken in… whaddya know… a violent motocross crash. Yeah, bit of a setback. At least back then when I was living in London, I always compensated by going to the NEC exhibit in Birmingham to oogle the bikes.
This year, the merry little boy found himself in mad lust over the BMW HP2 crazy enduro, the KTM 990 Superduke and the KTM 560 SMR. As always, I spend a little extra time in the Ducati camp, and by Triumph you do get that Dylan feeling when you sling your leg over the black Bonneville (altho perhaps I should try the Scrambler, since I’m a diehard McQueen groupie…).
But my first love will always be the dirt bike. The are the quickest, the coolest, the most dangerous, and I could not keep my distance. You can see how they fidget on the stands, like caged predators, waiting to tear your arm off if you touch them the wrong way. This is not their natural habitat. They are born on the racing track, to perform the angry ballet – motocross. What am I doing here? I need to be out there riding. I need to be out there filling up my hollow soul. I beg you, let me go.
I’ve been watching this ridiculous farce unfold in perfect amazement for quite some time already, and I still expect someone to shout April’s Fool any day now. Being a white male from the Western world, highly educated and on top of that, a complete atheist, I feel like I live on the moon. Or Pluto. I wish I could understand why a few cartoons can cause people to boycott butter and burn flags and utter threats of suicide bombs. Doesn’t it sound surreal? But no-ho-no, it is cold hard reality. Damnation and despair, I really try to understand, I do, I really do.
Lack of respect? Holy tabu? Forbidden territory according to the Book? Please help me understand!
No, I’m from Pluto, where this sort of behaviour is deemed absurd. My personal Freud says it is a deep-rooted fear of upheaval of the controlled society. On planet Pluto we prefer Danish democracy over “Chinese democracy”.
Oh, don’t worry about the Danish economy – I hear the export of Danish flags is rocketing….
I will end my monologue with this simple question to which no one apparently has an answer: “Why can’t we all just get along?”
are like whips
on my hips
Sunday. Uuh… there is nothing sunny about ‘Sun’day. I foresee the future where I will put together a petition to change the name to Badday. How people use this silent space in time to get up early and go to church I will never understand. I don’t want to, either. Because, Saturday night is the time of the devil, and come morning you pay the price for those amazingly awesome dance moves you were busting out while the law-abiding citizens were sleeping… Jacko had nothing on me yesterday. Nothing, I say. Watch out for those hands. They fly. And how.
So I was wondering the other day what the brouhaha was all about and I said to myself that something has to be done and indeed that is what I did when I downloaded the new ‘it’ indie band The Arctic Monkeys who are outselling just about everyone right now in Europe and then I just parked my ass and cocked my ears in anticipation and… and… I didn’t like it very much at all and in fact I think they are overrated and so much so that I forced myself to go another round on iTunes but it did not help at all and I got all hot in my head and just deleted all files that had anything to do with the Arctic Monkeys and this only proves one thing which is obviously that the only good apes are The Monkees.
Si si, man, I kinda cooled down, you know. Needed some sweet music for these ol’ trumpets that stick out the sides of the ol’ mug. Yah know what I kicked back with? Otis Redding, the one and not ‘only’ because that word is plain too cheap when talking about good Otis.
Right, the source to this treasure was my coffeedrinking pianoplaying littlest bro, a mad musical snob who made me listen to Otis until I had to give in and admit that I’d been a criminal for ignoring the r-r-raw soul man. Now Mr Redding is a regular in my iTunes library, or the hall of fame as I call it. Brothaman, I don’t care which album of his you listen to, just go bad & wild. But make sure you throw a big party in your brain when you listen to his version of Satisfaction (I Can’t Get No)… ooooh boy here we go… feet start paddling… arms rowing… I can’t sit still… Otis is taking me places right now… Aye canta getta nouu… saaatisfaaaactjon… oowwww!!!
Sometimes you feel like a pinball, going back and forth and up and down, every hit a slap to your head. Badabing badabong… you know the song – present in the shape of 5 cents about climate change, the personal demon of this planet.
Those who research this subject are called scientists. But there is nothing scientific about the research results: a zillion of different opinions scattered like my sneeze particles. While one argues that climate change is a huge scam by ecoterrorists, another one states clear evidence of the next ice age, rapidly approaching. What am I supposed to do? Go into a blazing panic, or sit back and… chill?
Let’s assume for a second that there is some sort of climate change going on. Certainly it would be pretty nifty to have some idea of what the devil is causing all the fizzle? Well, count my damn sneeze particles again. That is how many different theories there are. Hope all that talk is not just… warm air? I’d really want to start believing in something concrete soon enough, otherwise it may all just turn into religion.
In the beautiful meantime, listen to the release of methane on a field near you…
Karis is the New Jersey of Finland. Just like Bruce Springsteen, I was Born To Run. He wanted to escape along the Turnpike, I wanted to hit the 51, never look back. Baby, I was boo-oorn to run. I ran to London, Stuttgart, Brussels. But just like The Boss, I still live in my blue-collar hometown. And while I hate it, I also love it. First you run, then you return. In the long run, perhaps the ‘born’ part is stronger that the ‘run’ part?
Just when did absinth go out of fashion? Was it right after Moulin Rouge came out? Has the green fairy died and gone to AA?
I remember the late 90s in London, when the tipple in question became legal again… If ol’ Hemi and VanMan Gogh sucked down the green stuff, I knew I had to do it too. For the university student, there is something completely irresistible about the combination of ‘bohemian’ + ‘artist’. We were hanging out in a dark club in Soho and I was browsing the booze list, sporting the bored look of coolness, when my eyes suddenly tripped over the big A. Not a whole much later was I leaning over the counter, looking up and down the long ebony legs of the girl mixing it. I paid Â£10 for that one, ooh it was never as perfect. Soho night turned muddy and the cheeks went all apple.
Now, however, I have a bottle of Hill’s Absinth from Prague that has been gathering dust for years. I serve it now and then to unsuspecting guests, but I can’t seem to find people crazy enough to empty it. I invite anyone over to my place to have a go at it! No… strike ‘invite’ and replace with ‘challenge’!
in the streets, underneath the stones
like insects, the words hide
at once I morph into a tamandua tetradactyla
(and you wish you knew what the hell that is…)
The smell of blood hit my nostrils like a fly suddenly zooming in on a big pile of shit. 53% – 47% according to the latest gallup in the second round of the prsdntl election. There is hope after all. I hath spoketh. And voteth. Vive la bourgeoisie!