Sigg3.net's Notepad

The IT Component

Per 120 Faculty Staff Member there was one IT support staff and his name was Jacob. Jacob learned the ins and outs of the Faculty business over the years, never once questioning his late night turn-ins and unpaid overtime. He raised questions only when the summer holidays were up, and he didn't receive his salary, because that was company rules. Except he was employed on an hour-basis and did not receive the summer compensation that everyone else did.



Nine sorry summers later he was fully employed but his responsibilities had only grown. There were 40 new members of staff now, and still only a single person to deal with the daily EXTREMELY IMPORTANT crisis that Jacob had to deal with. The crisis themselves were mostly harmless, futile and unnecessary; as is all human crisis at the tertiary level of society. Though over the course of the last decade he had learned that personality goes a long way, and there some personalities that were simply satanic.



Jacob came in at 9:30 on Tuesday 13th of July 2010, having taken the bus from his home. It was damp outside. Jacob didn't particularly like the damp weather, nor did his haemorrhoids. He finished his cigarette outside the gate, greeting several co-workers getting in their last efforts before their vacations. An obnoxious lady in red who would work herself up over the least slight malfunction, delay or her own user errors came by smiling. It was a smile worthy to punch teeth less, Jacob thought. His hand trembled.
"You're not on holiday?" she requested.
"No. Never. There is no holiday in IT," he said.



It was fairly true. He was going to work all summer. This Tuesday he was continuing the re-installation of a Windows work station which the user had conveniently left behind for him to 'clean up' during the summer holiday, as well as check in on a time-consuming digital recovery case that he'd been busy with for the last six days.



He hated it, he hated her, and he hated the way she made him feel.



In every request to him so far the lady in red would presuppose and project an error or major shortcoming of him unto her own situation. He had re-installed her computer from scratch half a year ago, so it was only to be expected that he was to blame for everything that could possibly go wrong with the computer. "Everything's changed!" was her recurring mantra every time she had a problem or even just a question. Ignorance had nothing to do with it. And neither did reason, as Jacob's full backups of her user settings and files showed that not only were her configuration identical to her prior installation, they were unchanged. PEBKAC.



To make matters worse, the Faculty had bought the computer for her, just to shut her up. It was that or shell out the 20K she claimed to have lost in luggage going to a conference.. This meant that though Jacob was not supposed to be supporting home computers, the Faculty had just made him her personal assistant.



And she took full advantage.



A few weeks prior when she had been struggling to get a wireless connection at her home and after going through the usual checklist he simply told her to unplug the router and bring it to work. The router was a good one, he had a similar himself, so it wouldn't be the DHCP server shutting her out as common in cheaper models. No. After having talked to two of her ex-lovers it turned out she had not used the right key. He looked over the troubleshooting e-mail he'd shot her on the first encounter with the problem, and there it was; "Step 1. Verify that the wireless key is correct."



The situation topped when she sent her an SMS text-message in CAPS saying that: THE SITUATION IS TERRIBLE! I NOW HAVE GUESTS THAT CANNOT LOG ONTO THE WIRELESS NETWORK HOW EMBARRASSING! WHAT TO DO?
He had written three drafts telling her to suck cock until self-suffocation, which was probably not far away from the truth anyway, until he wrote a calm, step-by-step troubleshooting. It took him a quarter of an hour to assemble the self-control to do so. Then two minutes later he received this message: I CAN'T BE DEALING WITH THIS BS NOW WE'RE HAVING A PARTY WOOO!



All of this and more rushed in front of him as the lady in red was chit-chatting away. Finally she left him to continue her so-called research, a lavish lifestyle funded by tax-dollars, yielding little tangible results. Jacob on the other hand was well into himself, absent-mindedly entering the elevator and then his office. He didn't even open his e-mail. He was thinking about revenge.



The first thought of any man in Jacob's positions is senseless violence. But violent crimes have a perpetrator, and it is finally he that ends up as the victim in a state where criminal prosecution was highly prioritized. No. Violence was not the answer. The answer was elegance.



He logged into his backups and started collecting evidence. There was plenty of it. As a Faculty employee he was strictly forbidden to shed any information to the outside, but only insofar it wasn't constituting a breach of law or the ethical guidelines of scientific research. The Faculty was more important than any one of its researchers, at least that's what the board thought. He put all of his collected pictures and documents in a USB drive and a letter to the media stating the significance of the material. He made sure to send it from a post pox in an unmarked envelope.



Not a week later Jacob stopped outside the kiosk by the bus stop and had a look at the headlines: International Faculty Researcher caught exploiting young respondents! The article had a slightly-blurred picture of the lady in red, details of the evidence collected and cries of moral outrage from various committees and University professors. The Lady in Red would never work again.



Hilarity ensued. Don't ever fuck with your IT support, sincerely yours.

Poem Hooray

I'm all alone in my bed,
it's cold and the clock's ticking.
It is a lonely bed
And my roommate is fucking.

The librarian is away, to Berlin,
and in her place a couple with needs.
-- Now they're fucking too.

Through the panting, gasps, giggles and moans
I try to recall what I wrote Mill two years ago,
which is really hard.

And I cannot fall asleep, no,
I am still here, all alone.
And no one would waste a thought if I died right away.
They'd put me on the sour south row of unknown graves
And no one would come by with flowers.

All alone. Wet, dirty and cold,
Drunkards pissing on me Saturdays,
Oh what a pity,
Soil is wet and the coffin is leaky.

And Development would relocate the graves
To make way for new motorways,
And forget me there -- in the corner by the fence,
Kept forever awake under the highway.

Forever and a day,
Forever until Judgment day;
When everyone burns To Death, and the World's All Empty!
Except for me .. I'm still here..

Still all alone in my bed, still awake and still freezing.
Still a lonely fish in an empty sea,
And everything smells like fucking seaweed.
Even skeletons in my closet act like they don't know me.

Most of my family's far away, most of humanity's dead anyway.
And here I am; like a piss pot in a fairy tale.
Tomorrow is another day.
Yay.

Book of Reynolds

I had a Poodle named Poo
who always bit my shoes.
So I smashed his head into the wall, hit him with a frying pan,
shook his body until it expired, and sucked up the brain matter
with a straw.

I took a pair of kitchen scissors and opened up his chest,
the Poodle named Poo was full of it; butterfly cocoons.
No wonder he had been acting so crazy.
They were: Hope, Happiness, Family, Love, Light and Life,
and they followed me wherever I went
until the day I encountered a spider with webbed feet who bore the name Bureaucracy.

What a shame, what a pity; engulfed by black leather hugs and poisonous kisses
all my angel helpers perished into air by the aid of formal proceedings.
So full of light, so bright and powerful, I began to wonder where Poo the Poodle had been
to acquire such monumental marvels. I had heard tales of Holy Dogs, Holy Hot Dogs, the Gods embodied in Poodly bricks of atoms and wagging tails.

I set up a sect and commenced my worship of Poo.
Soon we were many, we who devoted our lives to Poo.
Many set out from camp to tell Others of the Miracles of Poo; Divinity embodied.
And many young girls gave blow jobs for better afterlives too.

Forever and a Day we waited,
Forever and a Day we prayed.
Until Eternity we shall sing the praise of Poodle Poo;
The One True God below the Heavens, the butterflies and blow jobs.

Labels: f, go, yourself

The build-up to the Landing in a 19th-century brothel with a view to the Airships

Over a hanging bridge clad in black, rotten creepers, we two ventured into the impossible part of the forest on the forbidden side. I had devised a plan and disguise, we were dressed like birch trees, young and proud; and on the path to open sky we came across a colleague who was lost in her mind.

We exchanged experiences telepathically before we parted ways; she was going back across the bridge, seeking refugee from her memory and comfort from her love. Awe, no fear, took hold as the opening proclaimed by the rumours flowed onto our eye balls like a deluge. We drank the immense and endless horizons of un-ended woods over hills curved like resting bodies like thirsty travellers.

'Behold the view' my good friend said; twas he who brought me here, he who'd seen it before without losing pattern of thoughts.
The distance to the bottom below us was incomprehensible, and as I bend forward I felt the sentrifugal curse foretold in childhood fairy tales; I took air and plunged into endlessness.

Plus des temps; the joys of food on dreams
or Sunday Steampunk Dreaming

Clear your temples, people, 'cause I want to take you with me on the sickening journey of Friday food poisoning Steampunk Dreaming.
It was a Saturday so cold that the air could cut glass, and waiting with my brother for my second brother my knees were weak and my vision haunting. The night before we'd gone out to check out the streets, Blow playing Tom Waits at the Irish place, and before the night was through I ordered me some nachos.
Saturday morning with bad diarrhea, running around town to find a new cellphone, taking the tube home to puke and sleep for ten minutes before meeting my brother and rejoin the rest of us at the present. Push comes to shove and present comes to past; we had a pizza at Peppe's, half-n'-half, and went for the cinema. Fetching me some carbonated water while my brothers checked the program, the sickening butter-smell of stale popcorn grease penetrated the skull and almost blurred my balance, Alas I was forced to call it a night unless we needed to make a scene.
It was 9 pm when I got home, barely able to pull my clothes off, shaking and sweating like a junk sick dog, I put the BBC on and fell into a half-sleep from the exhaustion.

When you dream in half-sleep you half-dream, meaning you aren't in the dream - it's there in front of you, gaping over your conscious vision while your mind is still awake, and pacing itself to take it all in. These dreams are restless like nightmares, and mine took the shape of a many-sided leather ball with concave surfaces and snippets of text on all sides. As many times I turned in in the bed those three hours, as many times I turned the ball; and the length of literature I had to fathom was enormous. Some sides only had a few words or a quote, but others were compressed paragraphs or full pages; and they all bore an equal importance since conscious will ceased to impose an order.

And as the many times,
as have so unequivocally been observed,
the statements hitherto mentioned
will all together in their
comprehensive study show us coherently
what's always been expected..

and so on and so forth. Some sides were short one-liners summing it all up somehow, and whipping your attention to grasp all of it in the light of one word; "Statue." or "Status." or "Times." or "Theory."

I woke up exhausted at midnight when my brother texted me to tell that all was well and feel better. I had a cigarette and fell asleep for the second time, this time in full, finally getting some rest from the textual nightmare that very likely was a psychosomatic stimuli courtesy of the BBC.

Next thing I wake up in a threatening murder mystery.
It looks like a flat but feels like a home, there's a tree outside and a black car from the 30s. A woman in red is now alive and now dead, her body chopped into many parts but there's no blood, and two detectives with long coats asking questions.
There is more to this dream than what it seems: the fence and the hill outside looks like cardboard backgrounds, and the highly advanced insect-like robots seem to blend in without being queer. They are made of black metal and while the atmosphere is film noir I, the observer, must admit it's a mix up of centuries. The detectives' steampunk equipment with long, shiny razors and smudgy tubes are easily defeated by the robots who now, in turn, are the ones asking the questions. And I am made to watch as they flawlessly decapitate the inspector and leave his upper brain and eyes to dangle from two robotic arms, while a helicopter-like ladybug pummels his living remains with tiny balls of led from three synchronized cannons the size of a walnut and red as the devil himself.

I wake up again, it's six a.m and I light another cigarette. The world is very dark and very cold, I feel like going to the bathroom but something tells me I should wait it out. Instead I drain my lizard and return to bed. After all of this, it's time to sleep, I reckon.

As concurring with my wishes the grand finale is nothing but an adventurous vacation trip. There is me and two author friends, all three old wolves on the Real-Life scene, in a grassy countryside at summertime. I am introduced to a white colonial-style summerhouse that housed four writing friends, old men, including James Joyce and a man with a German name. It is not a real German name, but the kind of German name you'd expect from an American, so I guess we're somewhere along the Mississippi, away from the river.
It is not very clear what the four men did there, expecting alien visitors or bizarre sexual intercourse, but apart from mystified history I am shown a black egg the size of a person made entirely from painted patches of bandages; and when unveiled it reveals a similar colour to the leather ball nine hours before. The hardened fabric outer shell protects a cubic room that could fit a man's head, and inside there is a softer shroud with motherboards in old-style brown.
We are displayed these instruments with great awe, before I'm back in a flash at a train station waiting for the train to take me there (so I can see these brilliant spectacles), my friends are gone.

It is hot and dry and the old timber platform creaks when I find a bench to sit and wait amongst a number of people by one of four tracks. The train arrives but it is one of those that carry heavy load and don't stop for the leisure of its passengers, and I realize I'm also on the wrong platform.
I run to catch it on the other side while many run to jump on but before long I'm with those fifteen few who did not make it and will have to walk the part. I jog along the railroad tracks, and catching a glimpse of the old train below a hill, I cut it short and while running downhill I reach a young, blond girl sharing my mission objective.
She loves this catch-up game, I can tell she missed the train on purpose, she realizes I follow her and she sends me a smile
a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful smile
similar in sheer brilliance to that of Cameron Diaz.
With her to guide who cares if I miss a train or two? I would follow her to hell.
But she's an angel as sweet as dreams make 'em and what I can remember today is the greenness of the grass, the sharpness of the flint smell of rock in the sun, the tumbling downhill chasing each other and longing to see that smile just one more time before I wake up.
We never made the train so we had to walk the last part anyway, but I'd like to believe that during that time -- --.

I was better Sunday morn', at two p.m, seventeen hours of stinking sleep, but across the table of my nausea and diarrhea was the image of that girl smiling at me;
She gave me her name but it is only for my dreams.

• This is a child post to The joys of Mexican cuisine
  

By the eyes of the million

Nasty, I say Nasty, fornication with a half-hearted hog.
"Faster! Faster! Faster!" she screamed as we sent the acolytes down to watch television or tune in to the finer understanding of the Universe's total unity of which we presently took no official part.
"Listen, young lady," I said, hoping my loathe did not slip past the vocal guards, "If I go any faster now, we're gonna have a fire on our hands."
I looked deep into the piglet's eyes.
Thrust, as it were, by millions of tiny needle pricks picking down my wall of self-control and the flood thereafter, I gave her a rooster's length worth reckoning until her eyes bulged out like a deep water fish brought to the surface.
"Harder! Harder! Harder!" she screamed, and I did my very best, despite the shock waves of her blubber pushing me back; 'twas a nasty piece of tidal wave fornication; flesh and meat and sweat and shit.
It took a strong will to keep manhood standing high, and a full moon to hope I'd come out of it alive.

Are zippers sexy or what?

I just took the elevator now, and I was checking myself out in the mirror - since there was nobody else there - and I took a peek at my front zipper, and I realized that it's quite an elegant piece of genius right there.

Now. In my humble opinion a well-functioning zipper that's working like a dream and blends seamlessly into the fabric in terms of colour, is to be considered quite sexy. If you embrace functionalism, that is. A functionalist would be the sort of person only zipping or unzipping when he needed to. No unnecessary zipping. A decadent artist, however, would probably zip and unzip anytime he wanted to. Quite free-spirited, if you know what I mean. Or sexually frustrated, if (s)he never zips it back up again.

But seriously. A black zipper on a classy dress with an elegant lady inside, is pretty sexy. Especially when it comes to the moment where you get to go behind her and unzip that valuable piece of engineering. It's like magic. You could argue that a true functionalist fanatic will have bust his nut at this point, and consequently ruined the evening for the nice lady, but that's besides the point. She can always call me.
In my experience, really large zippers are not that nice, but they never seem to lock up; whereas the small ones, which are nicer by appearance, have a tendency to lock up. In extreme conditions the small ones may even cause injury to the person wearing it.
This problem divides humanity into two groups: functionalists and aesthetes.

The functionalist maintain that the beauty of this piece of clothing, if you can call it that, lies in its seamless use. The functionalist also stresses that you should never rush a zipper, because that's the main reason they get jammed. The person unzipping is simply inexperienced, or in a state of psychological stress. If the women in the dress is also your boss, that would be understandable.
On the other side, an aesthete would claim that it is not the zipper itself, but its part in the artistic experience of this particular dressed-up lady and the totality of which [sic.] that is subject to our evaluations of beauty. An ill-functioning zipper does not necessarily ruin the evening, especially if it defuses the situation with regards to her being your boss and all.

For those who take utilitarianism seriously, which probably involves half the population of North America, the small amount of agony you place on the lady in the case where the zipper has caught some of her skin, is over-won by the great amount of pleasure you're about to receive. So summing up the totals of pain (d) and pleasure (h), d<h. The other half of North America is closer to Kantianism, which clearly states that you're doing great if and only if you're doing great in aiming to be as good as half an angel. So no doggy-style or naughty roleplaying. Zipper's got nothing to do with it.
Being European means being fatalistic about everything. We really don't care. Just do her and do her good, man, 'cause you're gonna die sometime very soon anyway. And then we'd have some absinthe and smoke cigarettes in bed, reading Strindberg.
Goes without saying that it's post-WW1 Europe I'm aiming at. The great recession. Rousseau and the likes around the French Revolution would just go: " Just take her clothes off and get on with it, will you?" But then they didn't have zippers back then, and were never faced with our predicament and its ramifications.

Some are even sceptical to the value of zippers at all. I mean, in some cases buttons are a lot sexier, since they're usually situated on the front, which makes for some interesting and intimate openings, and often results in some degrees of cleavage.
It's also a historical fact that buttons have been around longer, and are geographically more used than zippers are, and probably will be. Even in the Star Trek movies, which must suffice here as a casual prediction about our future, the uniforms haven't got any zippers. They don't have any buttons either, however. The clothes are so tight, that I suspect they are beamed on.

Of course, a full-blown functionalist, a real blood-serious functionalist fanatic, would probably just prefer all the women to be naked at all times; ridding us once and for all with the challenge of zippers and/or buttons. It'd be easier when you got down there to the club and met a girl, and instead of waking up all terrified the next morning, you'd just be like:
- You're a bit on the chubby side, aren't you? Nah, can't have my number. Can't be bothered. You'd have to lose a few pounds. But good luck with that in the future!

We all know that's either just fantasy or the part of nudist beaches where the bad apples hang out. And nudist beaches are far from the fantasies like the one above. They are scary places. Hardcore reality. No fear. And no erection. I've examined the effect before. It's a matter of titty-overkill. But I digress.

The perspective at least fits the male mentality, and one could conclude that all men are functionalists, because we really want our ladies naked. But that's jumping to a conclusion and missing a few steps. That would be some kind of stoneage functionalism. Brutus like, Brutus take. (Brutus can't open zipper. Stay, while Brutus get axe.) Most of us have, through the course of of the millennia, developed more cultivated tastes when it comes to female fashion.
That's not to say we don't like naked women anymore. On the contruary. The global population growth is only increasing, meaning there are plenty of naked women out there having unprotected sex with men who knows how to work a zipper. But what I'm getting at is that there's only so many women one man can take. And where women are scarce, men will instantly go into combat mode if they see a naked woman. I know this, having grown up in Northern Norway. We spend the better half of the Winter looking under rocks and travelling the fjords looking for women. We even have legends about secret paths and signs of nature leading the way. And winter lasts six months up there. It was hard. Many didn't make it. Having a zipper is a necessity for women in remote and rural areas, because they'll be harassed to death if they are naked. That is if they make it through the winter without freezing to death.

It's a cold world out there. I realize that this short text may not be leading anywhere at this point, because I got all side-tracked by the thought about naked women, but I've managed to do what I wanted to; namely to pave the way for this new field of research. It's by and large a field covering a variety disciplinaries, for instance sociology, psychology, anthropology, geology, archeology and the metaphysical areas of mathematics as well. As always the debate just needed a starting point, and for me that was today. Standing in the elevator, perplexed by the exhillarating brilliance that is the zipper experience.

Chances are you have used one today. Whether it was your own or not is none of my business. But did you stop and think about it? Probably not. Practically worn by everyone everywhere in western society, placed between your index and thumb when used, and let alone to perform its duty when you're going on with your life. It's like a little helper that you have complete confidence in, a guardian angel taking care of what matters the most; be it when you're in need to pass water, or to enhance your chances of bringing forth a new generation of little zipper-users.
And if used incorrectly it will reduce the probability of bringing forth new generations dramatically.
It's safe to say that zippers have an uncontested place of its own in human fashion, but more importantly, in human evolution.

The Zoning Report

I was somewhere in the vicinity of the Piña Colada galaxy investigating an unchartered cluster of purple moons when the teleporter hurled me haplessly into the void.
I knew there had been a fuckup on the teleporter deck, 'cause I'd been several sections away, I wasn't wearing a protection suit at the time, and there was somebody's hand sticking out of my chest. 'Could be the dilithium crystals', I advocated, feeling the decompression crushing my limgs and ultimately destroying me.
Essentially I woke up and started drinking.

I had been walking around for nearly an hour and the whisky was wearing out. Everything is a sign when you're lowly intoxicated, it's a state of abrupt and immediate neurosis, waiting for the next beer, the new high: Last cigarette? It's a sign. Green light? It's a sign. Entrance fee? A sign.
I lost myself to a jazz place an hour after midnight. What I was looking for was live music, but so far no luck, and here they didn't even play jazz on the stereo. I knew I had something to make up for, not really sure exactly what it was, but I ordered another whisky.

On this imperative mission of scientific observation I saw many noteworthy things to take note of. I noted them down.

After the Great Invation of street prostitutes you couldn't really be sure who you were talking to. The girl in the door? Who paid her? Was she wired? Connected? Why did she insist on fees so close to closing time? And the Russian accent? The Rasta dreads? Then I saw the rich kids with walkie-talkies, covering either side of the street; what were they looking for? Was it a manhunt? Drugs?!
I suspected drugs.
But what to make of the WTs? Everybody know dealers are paranoid people. So these men were covering as cops, but for what purpose?

I bought a burger at a place with a sign saying: 100 000 people can't be wrong. I found out that each one of these persons had been wrong. Strangely, not all dogs eat barf. Shooting stars fell like glitterdust from a titty dancer.

A girl was scratching the back of her neck and sent an indifferently curious glance at me. Analysis. I smiled, but quickly hid beneath my table.
I felt the beers weren't working. Had I been mistaken? What place was this jazz place, really? Everybody sent knowing glances, except for me, the unbeknowest one. I felt like Clooney in From Dusk Till Dawn.
They were all vampires waiting for me to get drunk and suck me dry.
Or worse. They were all prostitutes!
Even the bald couple of guys at the end of the line of losers. It was a test. I felt like an insect and my nerves were burning under the magnifying glass of prying eyes' pressure. What survival instinct would kick in?
They put on off-beat jazz. Had they noticed anything? The couple right across me were making out like horny teenagers. She was waiting for every word he said when they spoke between tounge rotations. I knew I shouldn't have taken that pill. He explicitly said: Do NOT take the pill. I thought it was a rhetorical question, but now I realized it wasn't a question at all.
The beer was definitely not working.
He said unless I consumed an alarming amount of beer the pill would only make me paranoid. Why did he give it to me then? For keep's sake, he told me.
The blonde had nice tits, but she was physically into the dark haired guy like an anteater into the ant hill. Unconsciously I picked my teeth with my tounge. I'd like to see if they quivered if I burped on them. Her tits. Some tits quiver like jellyfish. Anyway.
Downtown Oslo was never going to be quite the same again. Never before had I seen all the cameras, police cars and undercover agantes with walkie-talkies surveilling every square inch of this town. Karma points for karma whores, Christian pedestrians brutally invoking other people's personal space with their perverse teachings. They all had a part in it somewhere. The bigger picture. I was the victim here, watched and controlled. Were they pushing me around with mental force? But Why?
What could they possibly have on me? Nothing.
I stood in line for another beer when it hit me that in this digital day and age, everything could be fabricated. All they really needed was a good shoot of the background and a mugshot of yours truly. The beers began to kick in, I could feel my toes tingling. Damn. I'd overestimated my strength. From passive-aggressive paranoia I became the talkative guy at the urinal. I was checking my retinas for recognizable patterns in the bathroom when I realized I was drunk.
So.

Where to now?
When drunk, real drunk, you don't care about replenishing the species. You want to get even more drunk. And then some. Why shout when you can snuffle?
I had a swaying cigarette outside. A beggar gipsy girl told me I was beautiful. Of course I was. At this point I was drinking out of spite. I left something for her on top of my immediate sorrows and political reforms.
They had turned off the jazz when I returned, and the girls were gone. What was this conspiracy? They had only been talking. What was this? Were they lesbians or communists?
I thought about a girl I knew who presently served a prison sentence in a West African country. For attempt of coup d'etat.
They had to be lesbians, disappearing from their beers and going to the toilet together. Girls do that, go to the john together, but Johns never do that. But you never compromise a full glass of beer, neither John nor Jenny. Maybe they had moved to another table. Can't blame them. But they hadn't.
She had managed to convince her doctor that she was pregnant with the president's bastard child, and in some countries bigamy and poligamy is prohibited. She made herself an enemy of state by banging him. I had just received a letter from her, alive and well, doing fine, thinking of you. DNA doesn't take sides. I had asked the president to keep her a little longer.
MY GOD! was the blonde a double tongued-freak?! No. Poor lighting.
A man came and collected the two girls' beers. They were watching everything. When rap music was put on, I reminded myself of the primary objective; live music. No one was helpful but I wasn't helping myself by sitting here. What political party had decided our common fate - to sit and drool at Swedish rap and Kanye West?
Maybe I needed naked women.
Maybe I needed a little fresh air.
Maybe I shouldn't have taken that pill.
My left eye jerked involuntarily. Was I having a stroke? The lesbians were replaced by a middle-aged man in a red jumper, actually lying on the couch with a beer, patting his backpack. A terrorist? Here? Why not? Terrorists drink beer.

Even though my vision was blurry, the blonde's tits were still perty accessoires on what to rest my weary eyes. Maybe I should ask the couple if I could just go with them, and satisfy my voyeurist needs? Would they care if I was sitting there? She looked seriously like she seriously wanted to seriously fuck him. It wouldn't get serious on my part. Too late, too drunk, no starting point.
What could I contribute with? I don't make much sense when I'm sober and keep my mouth shut when I'm drunk.

A woman with a tremendous forehead sat down on a table next to my person. After a quick assessment of the past, I realized I had never came on anyone's forehead. Moral agony hit me in a pang! Right then and there I broke out of my paranoia and fears and physical heart aches; and made a resolution. I needed to get outta this town. Expand my horizons. Yes. This place had too many fake blonds, and fake blonds go bald. The only baldhead I'd ever love to love's Sigourney Weaver in Alien3. That's one in eight billion.

I contemplated a date with my librarian; a classic beauty, strong and slender body, swan's neck and promising bossom. I don't even do dates.
At this point my heart was in severe pain and I had trouble breathing were I sat. Would I make it past 35? Thirteen years left? Bad number. My draw.
I decided to find the last brown pub in space-time. It was just around the corner. An ex-convict kind of place, but it still had some style. Although you had to watch yourself. Strong men. 21st century, everyone wears a condom. For various purposes and positions. I turned before entering.
Water.
Was it beginning to rain or was I crying? I leaned at a parking meter and caught the eyes of a Spanish lady driving by in a Wolksvagen minibus. Did I arouse too much suspicion? Was I aroused at all? How was that even possible?

I came to a point of dying. It's a point you don't want to be. I was even thrown out of a place called 1 Way for not being black enough.
It was at this point of no return I fell into Teddy's.
They told me I had fifteen minutes left before they closed serving. I went to the toilet and had a sit-down with myself. This was probably the best time to not drink any more and get on my way home. Relax in my black leather chair with a wiff of whisky. Yes, it sounded like a sound idea. But I vetoed it and bought one last beer for my last fist o' coins.

Including my previous experiences this evening in my current considerations, I wasn't sure whether anything I did and observed was true and intersubjectively accessible, or a decisive pull-of-the-plug in terms of consciousness' electricity; BUT I was quite confident that two ladies in the bar had given me the green light. And as you can remember, that's a sign.

I decided to have a cigarette, though, and collect myself. Good idea. My other half was leaning on a dumpster, and the multiple personalities had a row with themselves. This place hadn't changed much since the forties. Not that I was around back then, but that's what they said. My arbitrary guess was that the same legend could be effortlessly applied to the girls at the bar. The curse of blurred vision. I would have to squint at bitch-slap-range in order to know for sure in that light.
Outside it was nice to see that I wasn't the only one with coordination problems, though. People were either running like sissys or marching like tin toy soldiers.

One of the two came out to me when I was standing there. She had - in fact - been here since the forties. At the same time, as a male of the species, I felt a little sorry for myself when she left. We talked about how I'd stopped her hiccups, scaring her to death by the dumpster, and how there are actually more bacteria cells in front of you than person cells when you're standing in front of a person.
Okay, so it was a good thing she left. Embarrasing pickup line.
She looked like an older version of Björk. Why did she exit to smoke just a few minutes after me? To smoke? Was she high? Who did she work for? What office in particular? Vice or Organized crime? I was guilty of at least both. Her brown eyes were like rotten cheddar surveillance cameras when she asked for my name. I gave her a fake name. It can't be a crime.

The night tucked itself in during that late hour in 1950s surroundings. I was ready for a meal, or taking a piss, or a troublesome threesome with those two lesbians in the corner. These were older and less intellectual than the previous ones. But even the idea didn't seem appealing to me. Hazy selfless drunkard among all these sane people. I stumbled out the door like a dog waking up from the narcosis at the vet's, glad to still be alive. Was about time to get home and high, hear the last tone of Glenfiddich's folksong before passing out.

Inlook

Another miserable day.
If I had been a horse, would they have shot me for boredom, I wonder.
It must be boring being a horse, but at least you can sleep standing up,
something I've often tried and it always ends in horror.

If I had been a fish, would I have closed my gills and dropped to the bottom?
Or - If I was a salmon - gone and get laid before dying?

I like the way salmons live.
All their lives they grow, swim, explore and discover, not a thought about sex,
then towards the end - The Great Shag - before the grim reaper comes along asking:
"Was it all that?"

I have masturbated six times today,
I'm still bored and still alive.
The life a salmon never had.

Losing grip (D013933)

The skin around my nails was always hard and white. You could pull off chunks, but it wouldn't bleed noticably, and another layer would grow. I could never stop picking it.

It was a Friday evening it happened. I wasn't going out, but my body ached for a drink. I came down to the subway station, it's more of a stop really, and a group of outgoing types, boys and girls dressed up and slightly drunk were standing there. This type always stand exactly where the first or second first door will stop, at the first cart, as if the guy running the train would care if they got beat up or mugged or something. As if the only thing separating these frail, delusioned, television-bred, spoiled and arrogant kids from the wild night they knew was out there - 'cause they'd seen it in the news - as if this guy, quite the opposite of them was their only shred of civilization in an evening we all know is driven by the passions of men and lure of women.
Even if something had happened, something as unlikely as these kids ever waking up from their dreams, he wouldn't have lifted a finger. He took care of his own.

There was a little rain, but not uncomfortable.

I chose to stand where the end of the train would be, like I always do. I'm mostly let alone back there, ever since the newspapers had a story running about a rapist who would sit at the back of the train, picking out his victims. Timetable Tom.
That's when I felt an eerie tingling sensation at the base of my left thumb.

I was looking at two of the boys. One of them had kicked the other in the crotch, and now it was the other guys turn to get to know the inner fire lit by the spark of passion. Even though it was the passion of hurt. MTV turns young kids into sadists.
But soon the sensation in my thumb had receded from a throbbing, and it felt as if gushed cold, and I realized I couldn't feel it any longer.
Blood had rushed out of it, like the last rats to leave a ship, and now the captain was going down.
I glanced at the group. I recognized a few wondering stares. They were afraid of me, I knew that, but now their looks were coloured by curiosity too.
A cold sweat of fear caused a quick tremble, and they turned away from my eyes; I couldn't ask them for help, they would run anyway. I kept my trembling hand to the side. Out of view, out of shame, and I awkwardly lit a cigarette, looking down when I could.

From one of the cracks in the tough skin I thought I glimpsed something. Now, it could have been a raindrop reflecting the light from the lamp on the other side of the street for an instant, but I think to this day that what I saw was something alive. Something that had been inside of me.
A maggot.
A chill ran through me, and I stepped sideways to see if I could see what it had been. I saw nothing. One of the guys shouted something and the girls laughed nervously. I hurled around, but they turned their backs on me.
One of them gave me a thumbs up, but a girl pulled down his hand and quickly glanced at me, before scorning him in hushed, controlled whispers.

The train was about to arrive. I stroked my thumb with my left index, and could barely heard the sound of flesh falling from bone above the sound of the train when it amputated.
It fell into a little puddle. I stretched out instinctively, picked it up and put it hurriedly in my pocket, and kept my hand there. I suppressed my panicking breath.
I caught one of the girls gaping at me, but she looked away quickly.
The train arrived, I got on the second last cart, and I didn't dare to look at it before I was well home - beyond the gaze of others.

Man, I love tits.

There's a variety of tits that slips away from most men's conscience, as most men tend to grow weary of illumination and rather leap into action. But I do love tits, and I appreciate their fulfilling diversity.

There are tits for each and every occasion, tits for various outfits, tits for late afternoon dinner parties, tits for long fur coats weared in the theatre, there are tits for jogging and tits to bring along to the race track if there should be an accident on the opposing side of the track.
There are tits for politics, not covered but slightly undermined by sublimely coloured fabrics. Tits for cafés that can't be forgotten. Tits for one o'clock deadline, these are bouncy ones that aren't shy but doesn't call for attention either, 'cause they are tits that stresses delivery upon demand. There are tits you wouldn't want to meet in the street at night, there are tits that you couldn't meet in the street at night, there are tits that would attack you if you were close by and unaware, there are tits that would kill you if you caught their stare.

Tits flourishes around the globe as posted, stamped, bought, sold, viewed, examined, squeezed, fundled, stroken, rubbed, smacked, slapped, spanked, kissed, spit'd at, despised, cherished, subjected to religious awe, internalized and centralized, globalized, localized, urbanized and genocide, there are tits broadcasted to the thousand homes by television, much unlike the revolution.

Some tits are uncalled for, others expected. Those who are the best are those who explode in splendor and promise, who ignites the vulcano of passions and the imagination of the blind man; those are the ones I cherish the most.
As for forms, Plateau spoke of them as abstract and perfect, hardly convincing when their representation by induction are imperfect - while modern writers can't agree on a cognitive or emotional approach, since there are doubts whether tits are empirical or at least possible to validly justify.
Nevertheless, they are a manifold to grasp in one lifetime.
There are tits that are bouncy, there are tits that wouldn't move during an earthquake, there are tits that disappoint you, there are tits that say hello. You can find tits that erupt as soon the bra is unhinged, you can find tits that should never have become, and tits that scare the blood out of you despite your near to mortal alcohol consumption.

Tits that make you blush, tits that make you angry, frustrating tits, tits that make you sad. There are tits that only look right from the wrong angle. There's the Tao of tits, Pauly's pancake nipples, the Victorian tit - slightly compressed, lifted - and the naturalistic tits of mothers, with or without Freud's interpretations. There are tits that make you go wild, and tits that make you run like wild. Tits hardening in the summer breeze, tits soiled in mud as well as tits showered in lubricants or otherwise tempting bodily fluids.
There are those tits that catch you unawares, that doesn't leave you be, and could probably be your end.
Other tits are nurturing tits, comforting tits, tits of self-awareness and tranquility. That must be the Tao of tits, in writing.

Some tits conspire, even though they seem heart-warm and open at first glance. Of course there are tits without political preference, without history, without an inviting interest. There are tits you can never get hold of from a woman's point of view, except for Fortune's help, there are tits you can buy, that never amount to anything, and only look good on paper.
Nipples have their very own special anthropology, not to mention topography, and I have yet to dissect and analyze enough representative samples.

There are illegal tits and senior tits and tits that are classics, that is, timeless. There are tits you speak of, others you keep to yourself, and those you wouldn't dare dream of. There are tits you only mention passing by, and others you can keep talking about all night. And there are those who by some or other convention are forbidden, spawning many a tale by poet and pedophile alike.

Tits can be frivolous, exciting, enticing, enchanting, encouraging. They can be self-absorbed and monasteric or modest and impartial to belief. They sometimes carry an air of cool indefference about them, that make you uncertain of their deepest interest and truthful determination. There are those that make you forget and those who raise a doubt.
Unaccounted for are those that never seem to fit any category, but must be dealt with individually, that is, particularly. And preferrably by me.
Some tits resemble others, others do not. There have been tits that could've been mistaken for something else, but I haven't observed any of those up close.
There are intruiging tits, and tits that makes you hungry. There are tits that feels like plastic as there are tits made of plastic. There are tits that suffocate and smothers, other who excel in their absence. Some are shaped like oranges, other like skiing slopes, there are those who just seem to have a life of their own, and others kept under vigilant control. All of whom should be considered non-indifferently, nevertheless.

And yet again there are tits that was, tits that will be, as opposed to tits that are, and aren't.
Some tits like to dance, others should never be allowed to. Yet more, there are those who are rarely noticed, and others apprehended as lethal arms. Which is good.
All in all, I cannot choose my favourite, as I am but an apprentice of this art. But I do my very best to study hard, and maybe one day I shall be rewarded with the perfect pair. Naturally, there are those who aren't perfect, but consider the radius and volume and you might find it's because you're seeing them from the wrong perspective.

Diversity is good, also over time, but never forget what you like.
And as for everything else, you might not even know what you like yet.
That's why you have to try.
But that's only me...

I lit my cigarette that had lost glow.

My cohort in alcohol looked up from his lemonized drink.
- So.. You don't have a girl, presently?

I in- and exhaled and shook my head.
- No, not at the moment. Why?

Sunset showdown in the afternoon of pre-cognitive romance

Raise your banner and flag, seen such spectacles at the end of the solar system?
Why not lie in bed, when the sun sets each day?

But you're missing the point!
What golden medals of inquiry follows the path of man as he ventures forth into the night of ignorance. Seemingly unfit for the perilous realm of bureacratic systems made to tear him down. But misjudge not the wolf by its claws alone, misjudge its total essence in the second you grasp its fullness. Only then are you perplexed enough to see what you've overlooked. And thusly, sitting on the train reaching homewards, to the secure sofa cushions and homely fashionated television gameshows intruigingly fit for no purpouse but slothness, art thou seated next to the naked old man carefully wrapped in a wet blanket.
Obey not the sunset since in it are no rules.

What marvellous melodies do you not hear? Three negro spirituals alone filled my soul to the brim in oily happiness and self-satisfactory glee the very instant I crossed the trainstation floor and wept my way into the greyness of the underworld. Here we are together in the struggle, here we are joined in effort and forgiveness, only here are men men and hopes false hopes and misoury the rule of happiness. Show me any forest and I will proclaim your lie; have you inspected each tree? - My friend, the forest is your mind. Release, release, dig deeper and build again. The Zen is always mercifull to the ones who forsake it.

Rest assured, at the end of a fortnight, you are happy as a werewolf viciously living itself. IT IS THE ESSENCE.

Living la vida Estonia (Three day trip to Talinn)

Homemade (ramble)
So I'm at this café at Oslo airport, right? I'm there for nothing but a cup of coffee, and standing in line there, I notice these huge chocolate muffins the size of a sheep's head, which costs nearly fifty NOK each (that's about ten dollars). They are big, of course, and the looks of it reveals quite a good mocca fill. Anyway, the tag next to them wants me to believe they are 'homemade'.
Uhuh.

Now, this is not a local vendor, it's a chain, baby. I'd like to see the home they were made in. That's what I'm talking about. There's no respect these days, when you can call pre-fabricated shit that only needs ten minutes in the oven 'homemade'. It's OK that they say it's "nearly as good as homemade", 'cause that's a comparison in accordance with Einstein's theory of relativity, and far from stating that it actually was made in an actual home.

And I'm not one of those who care so much about where stuff is made. All you need is common sense. If it's cheap, an Asian kid made it. But homemade food is something different, not just expensive.
'Homemade food' has love, security, family and all other sorts of positive relations bound to it that I refuse to just give away to Corporate Crap, Inc.
'Homemade' is not some brand you can buy. Because of the economical world thinking different, we now have to introduce 'levels of authenticity' in regards of items matching the critereas of being homemade.
I am aware of the public relations that these companies need, and I understand that "pre-fabricated then heated in a genuine stove" doesn't have a nice and appetizing ring to it, but there's a line here and they've crossed it!

Mika, the Finnish, lesbian waitress coughed.
"Oh," I said, realizing it was my turn. I cast a hateful glance at the quote unquote homemade muffins and smiled to her. "Just a coffee, please."

Arriving Talinn
The first native word I learned in this, the capital of Estonia, was affald. It means 'trash'. The second one was aitäh which means 'thank you'. In other words I could communicate that I am trash, but appreciates it. Women love that sort of thing.

My first fuck-up was not bringing any cash. Yes, I'm lazy and it was all my fault. But not only the future takes VISA. Estonia does too.
My second fuck-up was leaving my camera at home. I despise tourists and consider myself a traveller. A traveller sees what he sees, a tourist what he came to see. I wasn't expecting to see much, though, having to stick with the group and attend all those jaw-busting conferences. It's amazing how far the jaw can open in a yawn. Anyway, having arrived here at the Reval Hotel Olümpia I soon found out that I was on the twenty-first floor. Man, the view from here is awesome! The hotel is pretty good too. They've got plenty of bathrobes, a bathtub (man have I missed one!) and suicide stoppers. When I enter a hotelroom I instinctively check for suicide-stoppers by the windows. Could be something from a previous life, or something. It must have ended tragically.

There's just one thing, though. I've got a double bed. Now that is depressing. Which is why I've decided for my third fuck-up this far; checking out the Bonnie & Clyde Bar at the first floor. Good night!
(The fuck-up was far from fucked up, since I got in bed around midnight.)

La Vida Loca
One would think that conferences primarily made up by researchers and government officials would be boring, if you're not into the politics, or whatever it is they call it. But you should think again! These people really can party! Which leads me to my fourth fuck-up, but let us take it one step at the time.

In-between sessions of groupwork and plenum presentations, I walked around a little and tried to suck in the atmosphere of Talinn. People there seem to have two moods: either they're incredibly happy, or they hate your guts. This woman behind the counter of a kiosk nearly barked at me when I bought cigarette paper with a big bill. The architecture is nice, allthough a bit worn, but I found alot of potential in the city. Apparently there's alot of mafia innit too, capisce?

After a session on trafficking, more precisely the term 'vulnerability', in which this Social Dept. woman of Estonia made me feel like a chauvenist, I decided to have a bath. It was a really good bath. I hadn't had a bath for years (since I left the North of Norway, late summer of 2003, actually). In this wonderful bath, an hour which I treasure immensely to this day, I had a long monologue which concluded that having a penis doesn't make you a chauvenist after all. It comes in addition. I just got the double package.
It was two hours left before the big dinner after which the drinking would commence, and I went down to the bar. Had a cup of coffee with one of the researchers who wanted to discuss my future. Almost everyone wants to know what the hell I'm doing this fall, so let me spill it out to you once more: I have no effin' clue!
Anyway, she was soon accompanied by two more, and we decided to head into the old town to get a head-start on the drinking (told you so). We ended up at this plateu where women in oldstyle farmgirl dresses served literally mugs of beer. The kind of place you just have to like. The beer was plain but the company amusing, drafting - among other things - a common bird's sex life, and after an hour or so we were ready for some food.

We went up to this restaurant which name begins with the letter 'M'. I can't remember more than that, but if you ever get to Tallinn, just give me a call and I'll direct you. It is highly recommended to go somewhere else.
The food was tacky and didn't taste much (so much for traditional Estonian food, sorry to say), the service was slowly killing us, and the only thing keeping us alive was the steady flow of beer, wine and spirit that we more or less had to provide for ourselves. During the meal, which we masterly managed to press in between the drinks, I had a terribly interesting conversation with a sign-language translator. I have no idea what we talked about, but I can tell it was interesting.

One beer led to the other, but we soon found the restaurant too bad a place for our loitering, and headed back to Bonnie & Clyde. This is where the fucking-up begins.
I was already on my way to get pissed, you see, and the lack of real food had made room for extra beer, that's what I was thinking, at least. So, in Bonnie & Clyde all we had to do was race for the bar and get a beer. The band was playing crappy music, and later on the arrogant DJ (whom sweared on his mother's life that he'd never heard of Tom Waits) would take over, sending vibes of crap all over the place.
I got into conversation mode, since I tried to escape these looney students at the institute, who had this idea that making me dance would be a real blast. I think they had something of a bet going on. So I kept refusing.

I remember at one point giving up on the entire party, walking piss drunk out into the Estonian night heading for this Heavy-rock place I'd seen down the street.
Thank God it was closed.
After that, things kind of took off.

I woke up wearing all the clothes from the night before, my zipper unzipped. My throat was sore, my tounge thirsty and my cellular phone was stuck into the stuffings of my James Dean leather jacket. I had a glass of water. I had a litre of water. Then I remembered: "Shit! We're going home today!"
I had a look at the watch, it was midday, and I had time for a shower.

Then I checked out and headed into the restaurant where lunch was to be served, knowing that I'd missed a couple of "classes" and would loose my head over it. I found a table with the students mentioned and I sat down without looking at them, poured myself a glass of water and had a piece of dry bread.
"Tired today, Sigge?" one of the girls said. I grunted. They laughed.
There was something in their laughter, some hidden knowledge that I presumably had lost.
I manned myself up and turned to them: "Did I dance?"
"Sigge, don't you remember?" Ohbloodyhell.
After a while, having eated my lunch in a very solitaire mood, there was a pat on my shoulder. I looked up into the grinning face of my boss. "So, Sigge, what was all that about the mafia, then?" The girls giggled.
Being my boss I gave him my best answer: "I have no idea."

I must defend myself. I think someone must have slipped me something. Maybe three shots of whisky. The thing is, girls are very secretive. Especially if there is something they know which they know you want to know. After a week I learned that I'd tried to pick up a few women from the institute, that I'd asked the DJ to go fuck himself and that I'd danced half-naked on the dancefloor to "I'm too sexy for my shirt"... in addition to running over to my boss (getting dressed) screaming that there was mafia all over the place out to get me.

Jesus Christ.
There are two lessons to be taught from this trip:
1) Having a penis doesn't make you a chauvenist
2) Drinking too much at seminars (or in any other co-worker scenario) is probably the stupidest thing you will ever do. It comes back to haunt you whenever someone wishes to set you back. And I have alot of enemies. Including the mafia.

But apart from that, it was a good trip, and the first thing I did when I came home was getting pissed. Not a runner-up, but a cover op. Should've seen more of the city, though, so Worry, Estonia! I'll be back.

Sudan pt. 4 (coming)

(If not, delete this post)

Sudan pt. 3 (coming)

Khartoum-Nyala (Sudan, pt. 2)

Domestic flights in Sudan

One day was spent going over my equipment, looking at a few of the local computer problems, having my passport photo taken for the Darfur entry application and just relaxing. It's a bit hard to relax in 40 degrees celsius, though, but we had enough water to drink and cigarettes to smoke, so I found myself walking from the computers in the basement offices to feverish naps on the 2nd floor.

In the evening, three NRC officers who'd been at Nyala and were going home to their respective countries, came and we all went out for dinner at this Korean place in the basement of Hotel Africa, Khartoum. If you want a good meal that doesn't give you a running stomach, or otherwise polluted merchandise for that matter, this is the place. We didn't pay much for six main dishes, springrolls and sodas for everyone. Mr. P said it was probably the best food available in Khartoum at the moment. It was the best meal I'd for weeks, I must say, living mostly on spaghetti and half-cooked, plastic-wrapped dishes.

After that it was pulling myself together to make sure everything was packed, since despite my erraneous visa (approved on the grounds that I worked for the NCA, which was totally wrong), the application for going to Nyala had been accepted, and a planeticket had been bought.
These days (10th of April-10th of May) the runway on Khartoum International Airport is being re-paved, so the airport is closed between 9am and 5pm every day. My flight was at 7:30am, but if you've ever travelled by domestic flights in African countries, you know why I went a couple of hours earlier.

Just inside the entrance, which was literally packed with people and luggage and trolleys, and to the left, you had to put all of your luggage in the x-ray scanner. Everything. It was all going through the same scanner marked with radioactive warning signs that sent the luggage to the next room. Getting there was another story.
If you ever feel a little lonely in Khartoum, just order a domestic flight and go for it. You'll have people everywhere and - watch out - luggage being more or less thrown towards the scanner. Both my laptops got trod on. When I just entered the room, this guy with a couple of houndred newspapers that had to be scanned came in at the same time. "Ha, good I don't have a trolley in here," I thought arrogantly, but don't you think the bugger got there before me? Must've been a professional.
Anyway, you can forget everything you've learned about queuing and the subtle airport tricks within the boundaries of good manners, 'cause elbowing may only be too polite in these circumstances. When I'd finally managed to get my bags through, and was on my way out from room number one (still haven't gotten very far!), I had to climb atop trolleys and suitcases and people just to get out of there. No one had thought of making a separate way out of the place, no, but being a World Traveller I was probably the only one finding it exhausting.
Good thing I've read the Guide.
DON'T PANIC, eased my mind and put a I-give-a-damn smile on my face. When I finally was out, mr. P - whom so graciously had helped me thus far - told me to keep my ticket (reading MidAir) visible, since they only announced flights and other vital information (like fire) in Arabic. I went through a queue with people having the same ticket as I, had my hand-luggage inspected and was given a thorough, manual search until someone was so kind to point out that I was on my way into the wrong plane. Thank God - Allah - for someone noticing how confused I must've looked. The security check, by the way, was pretty thorough. The people-scanner was out of order or funds, so they searched all of us individually. As said, Sudanese domestic flights are an intimate experience.
(Mr. P told me on the phone later that this particular day had been more intense than usual, but I'm still a bit sceptic. The funny thing was that no one - no one - picked my pockets! In ANY western country I'd found myself without a wallet or ticket pretty soon. Haram.)

So, at the time of writing I'm sitting on an old Norwegian Fokker 50 (they still have the sign saying "life west under your seat" in Norwegian) on my way to Nyala. We'll probably stop in Al Fasher (the capital of North Darfur), but nobody can tell for sure, since the pilot is keeping his cards tightly to his chest. Expect a flight schedule from 1 to 8 hours.
What do I see out of the window?
Have you read Dune by Frank Herbert? Does Arrakis, the desert planet, ring a bell?
You may have read about Dune. I'm looking at it.
Desert; sand, rocks, small hills, no indication of any life, and dried out rivers.
I imagine being down there and my throat gets soar. In a very gruesome way, it is beautiful. Life and death (mostly death, though) clearly defined - your doom laughing at you from the landscape. The Sudanese desert also have a very distinct colour of red, which looks really great from an airplane. But a killer shark also looks beautiful from safe distance.

It happened that we had a "one hour" stop in Al Fasher (which lasted for about two and a half), in a non-conditioned room without bathroom or ashtrays. Luckily I had my mobile, my cigarettes and some water, so I was able to spend some time doing nothing. The rest of the time was spent casting hidden glances over at some of the muslim princesses, uhm, airstewardesses that returned them from behind their cover. I must say! If I didn't know what happens to "victims of infidelity" in this country, I'd asked them to join me in the bar. Of course there was no bar either.. When alcohol is banned, bars are hard to justify.

When we finally arrived in Nyala, passport and x number of copies of my entry-permit ready, no one was there to pick me up. At least, that's what I thought. I wasn't the only NGO, or "international", on the plane, but all the others were from various other organizations and being utterly unaware of the local setting, I just walked ahead out into the sun and the carpark. The latter was 500 metres from the airport. And I walked.
Driving around in rural Sudan is one of the most dangerous things you do, so if you (when you are an "international" at least) get stopped by someone, you want to have the proper signs ready. The first one is a sign I saw most cars had, stating that none of the passangers in this vehicle has a gun. The other one is a flag or a brand that shows which organization you're working for. If you're out of luck, none of it works.
But this was lucky for me, 'cause I recognized NRC's logo on one of the jeeps and headed for it. After the chauffeur, mr. Joseph, had fetched mr. T who was looking for me inside the airport, we - and six people from Oxfam who's drivers were on strike - were on the way into Nyala.
Being the youngest on site, and in many senses a VIP, I was given the frontseat so I could marvel at the scenery. The first thing I noticed were two soldiers playing with their Kalashnikovs by the entrance to the airport. I reminded myself that I was an NGO in humanitarian/social science affairs, which of course wouldn't stop them from shooting at us if they wanted to, but the words weren't empty in my mind at the time. My first meeting with "being proffesional in the field".

After a while, huts made by straw and donkey-droppings became more frequent on either side of the road. People looked really poor, hungry, thirsty and tried to catch our attention with waving and doing dangerous stunts too close to the traffic.
I turned to mr. T and asked: "Is this the camp?"
"No", he said, and smiled. "These are the citizens of Nyala. They are rich compared to those in the camp. At least they have a chance to live."
Twenty minutes later I was installed in my office and buissy working.

London-Khartoum (Sudan, pt. 1)

16th of April, 05
I arrived in London all right, and thanks to the New and Enhanced Heathrow Airport I've now got several waiting hours in front of me. Four, at least.
No, thanks, I already had a cigarette.
So here I'm sitting discovering the subtle arrogance of airport architecture: How to calm the mice in the maze.
It's a simple trick for simple minds.

You place tall windows along the walls and permit the monkeys to observe the buissy life on the airstrip. There's always something going on. These little mutated cars that sweeps along the ground, seemingly unaware of where they are going and what they were supposed to be doing there, judging from the way they drive, are everywhere. And the keen observer not too buissy with his jetlag-hallucinations will notice the way John Doe's luggage is handled. It's not. It's violated. Some of it is even left by the side of the plane, as if the throwers (that's what us world travellers call 'em) decided that the colours just weren't right. The observer whom in addition to his remarkable eye for details also has the power of foresight recognizes the immediate risk of his underwear ending up in a muddy side-road somewhere, or in Kuala Lampur, or both.
The optimist go for a lucky shot, the pessimist tries to recollect his insurance for the trip, the sleepy thinks about how much he needs to take nap.

The number of people engaged at Heathrow is also remarkable. I bet half of them aren't really employed, they just like hanging out watching all the action. Explains why the service rates to a good so-so. Heathrow says it's for security reasons. Heh. So why is it that they scanned my newly apprehended pack of Marlboro with a hand-scanner? While holding it their hands? The bastard even wanted to seize my two lighters (one of them with cute puppies on it, don't ask) since they were against regulations. I was like: "Excuse me, sir, but where do you think I just come from?" standing beneath the International connection-point. TRANSFER. It's not like my intestines haven't been x-rayed four times already! My lighters have been approved by several, independent authorities in two different countries! Despite the puppies!
Nah, they're probably checking the tar-level or something. "Sorry, sir, we don't accept Marlboro. It's too good for ya. In fact, WE are too good for ya. Turn around and return to the country you came from, please."

Oh, well.

Heh, I was just a victim of British, understated impertinence. I was in line for a black coffee, thinking about serving the Pakistani girl behind the counter a: "Hot and black, just the way I like women", when I realized that they didn't accept credit cards. So much for the future. I took out a $20 note and asked if it was possible getting the change in dollars. The beautiful Pakistani had to ask her superior. Meanwhile, this ultraBritish woman behind me puts two pounds on the counter, smiling and saying: "It's all right. I'll pay for it." I protested out of courtesy, but to no avail. I thanked her and wanted to give her a hug to really express my thankfullness (jetlag does strange things to you) to which my jet-lagged imagination failed and I repeated myself four times instead. Turning my back to her, just about to go for the designated smoking area, I realized that it hadn't been generosity that had triggered this sudden friendliness - the old hag was just sick of standing in line in her lunch break and wanted the bloody idiot of a foreigner in front of her to get out of her way. What a nerve! I almost turned to really set things straight when I remembered the coffee in my hands, paid by my adversary. Intelligent. Cruel. Sometimes a bit on the dim side. The British.

London out. Khartoum, Sudan, next.


------

ARRIVING KHARTOUM
The midnight stop in Beirut was interesting in a boring way. First off, it was a big surprise! Nobody had told me that we were going to the Middle East. Oh, well.
Even though the local time must've been nine-ish in the evening, it was pitch black and all you could see from the airport was diamond lights revealing unseen settlements, very like Tromsø at night.
People grouped around me at the middle of the plane there for no particupar reason, I was too tired or follow the conversation, but my Arabic has never been any good, anyway. It's mostly non-existent.
The people seemed like a family in the way they dealt with each other, but when some of them left to be embraced by the Beirut nights and Arabic, top-less dancers (whom I was thinking of at the moment) it was clear that they'd just met on this flight. I reminded myself that I'm a stuck-up Norwegian and that we are the most anti-social culture in the world, giving us some room to misunderstand friendliness, so I closed my eyes to consummate my relationship with the Arabic topless dancers instead.

Suddenly there was a 'bump' and the flight radio said we were going to land in Khartoum in ten minutes, if the turbulence didn't kill us. I looked out the window, peering through the dark I realized I was looking at a long, wide, snake-like black patch between myriads of city lights, and I realized I was looking at the Nile. Either that one or the Blue or the White one. To me it's more or less the same. This is the river upon stone was transported to the great pyramids in Ancient Egypt, the river Monsieur Poirot solved a difficult murdercase on and the very same river where James Bond was seduced and drugged to sleep by the Russian agent Triple X. My heart jumped.

After a mess with one Arabic guy who went to have a smoke in the toilet, we were down, in the passport-control and through the checking out. It probably took a while, but I was so jet-lagged and far into those lovely arms of those Arabic topless dancers that I didn't even get it. Thinking about it now, I was standing there thinking about the passport control in China, actually. They made your knees tremble. Sudan is different. I ended up getting through the control in a line that was for Sudaneese residents only, since the guy I was standing behind in the right line met an old friend behind the counter (or maybe he just wanted to chat with him). I was glad to see my luggage, protested that I didn't have anything to pay with to this guy who insisted on carrying it, which ended up with a shrug and a smile from me when we were all through to the parking lot. I'm not a sucker you can squeeze for cash, and these guys were employed by the airport, meaning they've got steady jobs and steady salaries much in the way the rest of the people don't. I met with NRC's mr. P who took me to the offices were I was to spend the night. It was about two-three in the morning, hot as hell, and since I hadn't brought any pass-photos with me, mr. P was so kind to tell me that I was going to get up at five the next morning to get it sorted. Having unpacked my most necessary stuff, and filled my water-bottle, I met a lizard in the kitchen. I decided to call him Lobo.

HITCH-HIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY

In memory of Douglas Adams (1952-2001)

If I'd ever write an article for the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Corp. I'd begin very humbly like this:
"The Universe is in fact - although a slightly debated fact due to the people claiming that subjectivity cannot be as objective as, well, objectivity, but they're constantly rebuked by the objectivists pointing out that the subjectivists cannot claim anything on objective grounds and should therefore silently pack their bags and move along to other, less dangerous, metaphysical fields - mind-achingly, eye-boggingly and above all fantastically dull.
You could lead a rather interesting life staring at a herring through all your wake hours, and although this has been done by an amazing number of individuals across the space-time continuum, it is rather shunned by those who tend to mend their dreams, or their neighbours' horny housewife's dreams.
The Universe is, due to its vast, enormous, inexplicable huge and indeterminable size, so boring that it is impossible for any single entity to grasp its full level of dullness."


If I would continue, this is what it'd sounded like:


The Universe is, as said, mind-achingly dull, and very very big, and the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy offers some quite descriptive concepts which are highly regarded even among the elite of subjectivists. Especially by them, since they like the conclusion of it. Due to the Universe's size, which is infinite, the population within it is None. Nil. Zero. Zippo. Nada. To them it means that the number of objectivists is infinetely small. It is a simple equation that always warm the heart of good objectivists too - borned with sense for mathematical proofs, stating that a finite number of inhabited planets divided by infinity is as close to zero as you ever can get.
With this in mind, the number of parties that was, is and will be is even closer to zero.
And if you want a task of a lifetime, try figuring out the probability of getting invited to one. Of course, spending your lifetime on it will probably set the probability to exactly zero, but neither the objectivists or the subjectivists have any conclusive evidence in this matter.

Having stated that the Universe is, in fact as per scribed, so dull that it's close to impossible finding out exactly _how_ dull it is, it is about time to rebuke that fact completely. The Universe is simply the most eventful, everlasting party that ever was, is and will be, simply because no one has ever found any other Universe than this one, all the while considering parallell universes. How can this be? Have you ever seen much fun in a mirror? (That's a typical objectivist pick-up line, by the way, but no one has measured the success-level of it as of today.) If you do see alot of fun in a mirror, everyone can sure agree that there's even alot more funnier if you turn around, away from the mirror. And even though people in parallell universes have complained about the racist issues this arise, most experts have agreed that every universe have their objectivists sharing the same idiotic opinion about the guys on the other side of the mirror(s) and therefore no one should complain about it since they all are complaining about it.

So if you by reading this, or by any other way of existing, can accurately put down on paper that you exist, you are indeed a very lucky being. If you cannot, you're dead, or a member of the Hyper Intelligent Shade of the Color Blue (apologies), or have yet to learn how to scribble on a note of paper.
The fact is that you're so lucky to be reading this that there is no way you can accurately find out just how lucky, you just have to accept the fact and get on with it.
And why are you so lucky? Since you are alive in one (of many parallell) Universe(s) that is so extremely dull yet excitingly funny at the same (and any other) time(s) that you'll probably never long to be somewhere else. If you do, you're out of luck, see above reasons.

One important thing to do after coming alive, or more philosophically - realizing that you are alive, is to establish some truths. Here they are:
The Universe is.
The Universe is big.
The Universe is boring.
The Universe isn't boring.
Don't ask.

You are not any more unique than any of the other unique things around you.
This does not not make you unique, but should certainly take away that smug smile of yours (apologies to Hyper Intelligent Shades of the colour blue).

You are a part of this universe whether you like it or not.
Subjectivists claims that you are part of the universe because you like it.
If you immediately find numerous arguments countering this fact, then you're an objectivist and probably exist without any feelings about it, or even very bad feelings about it, although your feelings about it doesn't change your existence per se.

Simple:
You are.
Don't ask.

And this is the difficult part:
You are
The Universe is
Of which the following two conclusions can be deduced:
1) The Universe is in you
2) You are in the Universe

Since option 1) would practically _make you_ the universe and this isn't widely regarded as very nice to all the other inhabitants of it (we'll come back to them) and would cause all sorts of problems in any kind of fields - real estate for example, it has finally been decided that option 1) is ruled out forever. Hence: You are in the universe.


You are in the universe, and you are of the universe.
Since the universe is the only universe there is, you must somehow be part of it. Option 1) is still ruled out forever.


Now comes a bit of a tricky part.
If you don't like it, skip it.
The Universe is in constant change, it moves in itself like a wheel within a wheel within a wheel. If you don't understand the concept of a wheel, then you've probably skipped a few evolutionary steps and should quietly accept our apology and also skip this step.
The wheels within wheels, as said, is in constant motion. This has been decided to be true (except by the subjectivists that still claims that nothing can be true and thus deny their own argument) since there would be a real problem deciding exactly what the universe moved in if not the universe in itself.
To establish this situation (a situation that in casu is the universe itself, hence a highly difficult situation) you need three ingredients:
a) Matter
b) Time
c) A flaw in astrophysic theory

a) is easy.
Matter is, essentially, material.
Since we've established that you are, you must be of something. We call this something material.
Hence matter exist. (In case you are a Hyper Intelligent Shade of the Color Blue, please apply the particle-model to light.)
Since we already have decided that the universe is, and you in it, and you are made of matter and that there cannot be any other possible place you can have attained matter from - the universe includes quite alot of matter. It includes all of it.

b) is the tricky thing.
Since matter moves, or is thought to be moving, or is thought - at least - to have been observed moving, it must move in four dimensions:
Here, there, there and when.
Here, there and there can easily be pin-pointed on a map, especially if you know your current location other than being in the universe, but the when has caused many a mind to over-boggle. To sum it up: if you move an object (or the object moves itself or moves within itself) from one place or another (or, in fact, move that one place to the place of origin without even thinking about moving the object) you must have done so in a period of time. Don't ask.
Whether the Universe includes all of the time, or even if time is the kind of thing one can include, are other interesting issues - especially if you've just arrived late from a lunch-break.

c) is self-fulfilling.


Another summing up:
The Universe is.
You are.
Matter is.
Time is.
There is a general flaw in astrophysic theory.

Sounds very nice, doesn't it?
No.
Without a sixth component generally referred to as Other People, all the time in the world would seem wasted on the living.
Other People is a generally accepted concept due to the fact that "they" are idiots and "we" are not. In a solitary being (you) harboring the universe such discussions would seem quite meaningless, even more meaningless than they are in real life, so we can still see that option 1) is still over-ruled forever.
With the last decisions in mind, let's add that forever is all of time, if such a thing exist. If not, it just is.

Now, whether you have eight tentacles, triple breasts or two heads, you have a good starting point for figuring out the rest of the truths for yourself.
Or you can buy a tri-D receiver set and gladly accept anything you see.
We have established quite a few true facts that are applicable in almost any situation, even in situations like that of the universe.

Since you are, along with the universe and its matter and time, and you know there's a general flaw in astrophysic theory that Other People created, you don't have to feel so down the next time you're not invited to a party.
In fact, you are extremely lucky.
How come?
Since the probability of you being invited to a party in the first place, in a Universe we all know is as close to completely unpopulated as it gets, is so small that it would take a universe of time to calculate, then you're going along with the odds and the Universe are working according to the simple mathematical rules with which you've successfully established your existence.
If you feel that this conclusion is very boring, then you've significantly strengthened it, since we all can remember how dull a universe it is.

If you, on the other hand, actually was invited to a party... then you should probably get alot of drinks to not overheat yourself on a probability high, and not worry about hangovers since you probably don't exist in the first place.

DISCLAIMER:
In order to satisfy the general subjectivist/objectivist and not offend either part, we have taken catious steps to implement these two groups' perspectives into a singular perspective as that presented above. Although the two respective groups would, respectively, argue that they either cannot accept these truths on general principle or that they cannot accept the subjective objectivism we may have applied according to their respective perspective, we are all very sick of their debate a long time ago, and would kindly ask the subjectivists to withdraw into their own, comforting universe and take the objectivists with them.


Two tips to help you along the way, though, having realized quite enough truths for one day: Don't panic. Don't ask.

Stream of consciousness, x-mas 2004

I proclaimeth that I am the Sun.
In a brilliant thunder of a whisper I refer to the issues at hand with the slight nod of a world leader that could mean anything, but all those supposed to know know exactly what my words do tell. Thus I begin the legend of man, and abhorrant creature pacing slowly with a fixed gaze on the toes on his feet and where they are pointing.
To him the past is but footsteps.

Ina golden carriagte drawn by three white horses encrowned with white feathers sat the Lord, an obesity of physical and psychological nature; a monstre it is said by some, those who may not admire him. To me the Lord was fit rightly to the scene, his gross body melted in the splendour of his while court who bowed to the paw of the penney - an uncrowned topped his mysterious smile that only the madman would interpret correctly.

This scene to another, fades in green, red-dressed carpenters are executed for neglectance and a stonebridge is raised so that the Lord may pass the river untouched. And the smile yet again.

Night fell on two centuries ahead, and a spring willow's birth had commenced and fully completed without miscarriege. In the frostly night of an indifferent moon ran a naked runner whose skin was covered by pulsing beads of sweat and tears reflecting the horrors that light beholds when man's asleep.
Trapped by his heart he was, and desperate to save his soul he ran and ran to reach his end so that his spirit might escape; but dread blurred the sky for his eyes and tears distorted truth to lies, and naked runner met his doom by the feet of his mother his very own womb.

Thrilled to joy by carpenter's toy the fiddleman played a tune of lores, and the Lord took note of this gruesome display, and wed him to his harem for all to save.

Albert Fish went away in thirty-six

Albert Fish was a steady, ol' man
Grey coat and top hat, and wrinkly ol hands
Coming down the street with a mutter on his lips
looking at the children, clenching his fists

The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him take them away
but he did it anyway

Albert Fish was a stoop, tall man
He hunched through the States with God's plan
The white kids were safe when his hungers start'd to burn
but not so the immigrants, the african americans

The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him take them away
but he did it anyway

Albert fish was a trustworthy man,
And nine year old gracie liked the look of this man
Accept the invitation, you tender, little child
Jesus says he loves you, and then you are mine

The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him take them away
but he did it anyway

Albert Fish was a very hungry man,
spanked beef and belly buttons, all you can have
in a house, in a closet, in a deserted ol' shed
he hid with his tools, with his meat, how they bled

The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him take them away
but he did it anyway

Albert Fish was a very nice man,
the boogey man, his skin had a faded grey tan
every now and then, a purpouse on his mind,
to lure away a child and roast the kid's behind

The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him take them away
but he did it anyway

Albert Fish was a painter, good man
He worked in every state, for every kinds of men
Just when he had written his juciy recipies
did the police take a note, and brought him to justice

The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him take them away
but he did it anyway

Albert Fish was a troubled ol' man,
didn't care for nothing, but God's grand plan
I did nothing wrong, in fact I did Jesus' wish
Angels would had killed me if it was wrong to eat those kids

But no more of Albert Fish
Since the spring in thirty six,
His joy was greatly amplified,
electrocution aftermath
A grin, a grin was on his face
Albert Fish, the thriced blessed case

The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him
The mothers would not let him take them away
but he did it anyway

Albert Fish dines in heaven now,
seated next to Jesus, next to Abraham,
he was a very humble man, just a beginner
but he got his reward, having old friends for dinner

Pull the wagon, push the load

Pull the wagon, push the load
Ease the pain, but don't complain
Reach for mercy, never stop
Pull the wagon, push the load

Shooting the moon?

I have reasons to believe that the sperm that eventually impregnated my mother and caused me upon the world, the little pre-me, did not win "the competition" by regular means.

It’s not that I don’t swim fast. In fact I’m an excellent swimmer! And I run fast if I have to. I have sharpened reflexes. Why doubt my physical ability then? It’s just that I know myself too well, and why should pre-me be any different?

Prior to discharge pre-me had probably arranged quite some party, inviting all friends, friends’ friends etc. etc. keeping busy not getting drunk. I’m sure you can all agree that it’s a plausible theory. When waiting to be plunged out into the unknown, the judgement day of sperm, one would be easily talked into having a great party. "Who knows what’ll happen when we get out there?" pre-me would ask. No one knew, so why don’t get drunk?
That’s what happened, and they partied like it was 1983.. Which it was.

Boom!
Party over, most people invited still drunk and indifferent towards the task at hand, left at least a good ten percent swimming at each other and having a laugh down by the greater, vestibular glands while the sensible and sober sperm started swimming. Pre-me among them, with a small head start.

Halfway towards the egg, not leading the race but not far from it, pre-me would collect his strengths and engage in small talk while swimming. Pre-me would strain to look concerned, asking for directions, which would weed out those who actually bore these doubts. "Are you sure it’s not that way?" or "It’s so dark in here, but I’m positive that we missed a crossroad further down." At counter-questions pre-me would shrug - try picturing that! - looking rather confused, saying: "I don’t know. I’m just following the guy in front of me."
As you can imagine, this strategy would put off those finding themselves smarter than the rest, taking completely wrong turns into the maze that is the female sex organ. Some of them would never be found again.

As you know there is a lot of sperm ejaculated which isn’t alive. Not to worry, there are billions upon billions of living sperm, but still there are those dead. Inevitably there would be dead swimmers pushed in front of the front-swimmers, slowly moving backwards in the desperate queue, as people pushed them away. Pre-me, having anticipated this, naturally took advantage of the situation, trying to make people sympathize or develop great fears of our chaotic situation. "Hey! We need a stretcher for this one, He’s badly wounded!" or "People are dying like flies in the front! Save yourselves!" Surely this would reduce the number of on-goers.

NOW, then, with only a small twenty-five percent left for the final rounds, pre-me would put all his money on one horse: Himself. Having carefully dismissed the ignorant brutes physically stronger than him, whose endurance alone would have made the race a far shot, he depended now on his last physical resorts, swimming against those stubborn ones who hadn’t fallen for his tricks. Luckily, they proved to be exhausted from the ordeal, leaving pre-me as the grand winner, claiming the egg.

Which is why I’m here. Survival of the fittest? Pre-me never saw them again.

Pulling whiskers in the autumn heat

The one complete, black, brilliant sun surfaces the shining of your eye.
It's perfect sphere are like gauntlets in starlight,
and the neon sticks are rushing back and forth from strings on a tree.

Florence kick the shoes off and jumps to bed.
Another night in, another shoeshineboy's dead twin;
Restless are thy nights, adhere the sleep or do as I said.

Oedipus and sacred cats compete in psychoanalytic treatises,
and the children of Ghana's streets sounds like one echo
of my disfunctional conscience.

Facing the Facts

Sometimes we all have to face facts. Like: we are not in the stoneage anymore, for instance.
But I think I'd enjoyed it. Living in the stoneage, I mean. And don't give me any survival crap or anything, this ain't no romantic disillusion, post-modern romanticism or anything like it. I'm from the North of Norway, for Christ's sakes! I can survive in the mountains. Even without hand-rolled tobacco.
I know what cold is, I know what work is, I know what starvation is.

So, why'd I like to go to the stoneage? I'm short, not muscular by any standards or especially friendly. How would I survive in a pack of savages? In a group of people who thought stoning the guy with the glasses (I couldn't manage without those) was the greatest entertainment in a frosty evening when the camp fire was dying out and people were eager to keep warm by simple activities? I'll tell you. I'd be the crazy, spiritual guidance of the group. The tribe spokesman in front of the unseen spirits of the forest and the netherworlds. I'd never cut my hair and polish my nails to be claws, just to look cool, and I'd shout in spit and fury the divine messages the tounges of fire and images of dreams had told me. I'd be their single guarantee for success in a dark world of the unintelligible.

In short, I'd kick ass!

Somewhere along the road, when deer and moose where scarce and the new-born members of the group were growing hungry, I'd lead us on a sacred journey to a land where Gods of the Night and Muses of the Day had promised us prosperity, longevity and real, ultimate power (you got to have that). A country where, as they say, the rivers flowed of milk and honey and virgins hid behind every barren oak. It wouldn't be America. I was more thinking somewhere in the Mediterranean. Italy, perhaps!

Anyway, we'd trod along, me in the front with a long staff with a deer's skull on it, perhaps, and whenever someone fell behind or wanted to go back to our deserted cave I'd break down in spasms, foam and roll my eyes back into my skull, drooling warnings from angered Gods with no names. (Gods without names are alot scarier than Gods you know the name of, because you don't know how to deal with them if you should suddenly meet them. You can't shake hands with a God, and you shouldn't show them the discourtesy of not knowing their name. If you did either, you'd probably be sent somewhere bad!) The ones falling behind would shortly be running afront, I can assure you. Every now and then I'd point out a strange mountain formation, unusual weather condition or even a broken branch, that would all be divine signs that I was leading them in the right direction (straight to Paradise).

After a couple of years, I figure it can't take much longer walking from Norway to Italy, we'd get there, and the group's members would recognize me as their guarantee of real, ultimate power in this glorious land that I had given them. I would never lead the pack per se, but not the previous nor the present leader would dare to speak against the Gods. If he did, we were all sure going to die in horrible pain, and nobody wants to do that. Since I did neither hunting or hard, manual labour, I would live longer than the average male in the group, and the youngsters from the Old Country, now grown up, would tell their children about how I'd led them from the freezing mountains of the North to this, our land, thus ensuring me a steady, protected and respected position in my old days.

Around the age of 45-50 I'd pick out three girls around sixteen to couple and mate with, because we couldn't let my divine acquintances go to waste, could we? And all would re-joice to the birth of my son. Or daughter. Either would be obscurely announced in my prophecies. I'd rejoice in the arms of my three sixteen year old women.

Yup. That's what it would be like, I can assure you. Assuming you actually led them in the right direction, that is. If not, you'd be thoroughly fucked. To me it would've been a simple choice back then; be stoned as entertainment or rule the group for decades.

But, as I said, sometimes we all just have to face facts...!