Tentaplugg, bakad potatis med sallad, vitlökssmör och stekt kyckling till middag, pratandes i timmar med den bättre hälften samt extrainsatt matteövning på torsdag. Det går bra nu, kompis, det går bra nu. Oh yes.
Det går bra nu.
Tentaplugg, bakad potatis med sallad, vitlökssmör och stekt kyckling till middag, pratandes i timmar med den bättre hälften samt extrainsatt matteövning på torsdag. Det går bra nu, kompis, det går bra nu. Oh yes.
Ibland blir jag arg så det ryker ur öronen och då jävlar!
"Henrik Eriksson som hoppats undervisa många år
till har plötsligt sagts upp av rektorn. "Vi ska
inte ha några 67-åringar här" är enda skälet.
Den här gruppen tycker att högskolans bästa är
viktigare än rektorns åldersfördomar."
IDG.se :: Demonstration för uppsagd KTH-lärare
FB Groups :: Henrik kvar på KTH
"Pressrelease Stockholm den 9 december 2009
Största protestdemonstrationen i KTHs historia
På KTHs campus demonstrerade idag studenter mot att KTHs populäraste lärare, docent Henrik Eriksson, inte får fortsätta att undervisa. Demonstrationen samlade 250 elever som protesterade mot att KTH gör sig av med den i deras ögon bästa pedagogen, samtidigt som många undermåliga lärare får vara kvar. Henrik Eriksson har upprepade gånger vunnit pris som årets lärare och fått olika pedagogikstipendier. Bland annat utsågs han år 2000 av ÅF till Sveriges bästa lärare inom naturvetenskap. Han är också en av pionjärerna i det svenska rymdprogrammet. Utanför rektors kansli skanderade talkörer slagord mot KTHs nya policy som inte tillåter lärare att arbeta kvar mer än ett år efter 67 års ålder. "Henrik Eriksson får sparken bara på grund av sin ålder", säger Mattias Söderhielm som är alumn från KTH och en av grundarna till bland annat Bredbandsbolaget och Passagen.se. "Vi är generationer av svenska civilingenjörer och programmerare som blivit inspirerade av Henrik Erikssons unika pedagogik". Henrik Eriksson har sedan han blev 67 år varit tillfälligt återanställd, men med KTHs nya regler får han nu lämna sin tjänst vid 68 års ålder. Detta trots att han vill fortsätta undervisa i bland annat programmering och numerisk analys. Sedan i torsdags har över 1 500 av Henrik Erikssons elever har ställt sig bakom den petition som kräver att KTH upphör att med sin åldersdiskriminering."
Första advent in my heart
Juldekorationerna är uppe och palmen fick bli offer för julkulornas hänsynslösa framfart eftersom det inte går att hänga något i den yttepyttelilla plastgranen. Julte från Indiska i gjutjärnskål doftar himmelskt. Förstaadventsglöggen avnjuts tillsammans med nybakad lussebulle från ica, jullistan från youtube på repeat. Det går bra nu. Ingen julstress, ingen desperat storstädning. Bara julkänsla så som den ska vara. Förlängningssladd till stjärnan, jord, hyacinter och dörrkrans bör införskaffas snarast, men en liten tripp in till stadens vimmel borde lösa det. Och riksdaler, naturligtvis... många sådana. Men vad vore julen utan..? Har kanske kanske kanske bestämt mig för att vara utan julskinka, men annars ska det inte snålas. Det är bara jul en gång om året, även om det håller i sig i några månader.
Fiori, var är du?
Älskade Mandaiinen. Jag hoppas du har det bra.
Livet är så kort. Så skört. På en tunn tunn tråd hänger det och en vacker dag tar det slut innan man hinner ana det. Det lurar om hörnet och lyckliga är de människor som lyckas leva i nuet och inte tänka på det som kan hända när som helst. Var som helst. Hur som helst. Fina varelser som nästlar sig in i våra hjärtan och som kniper sig fast där som små iglar. Det gick så fort. Hon kom, hon såg, hon busade, hon lärde sig, hon segrade och hon grep tag i mitt hjärta för alltid. Sedan förlorade hon. Är det inte hon kom, hon såg, hon segrade? Men inte ens den bästa kan lyckas för alltid. Slutet kommer alltid förr eller senare och vi dödliga borde vara tacksamma för den lilla tid vi får. Så snabbt, och ändå gjorde det ondare än Mandarinen och Celina tillsammans. Kanske var det därför jag aldrig riktigt återfick förtroendet i den delen av världen igen. Kanske för att jag tappade förtroendet för människorna i den. Vilket är grymmast? Att låta den du älskar genomlida stundtals outhärdlig smärta för att sedan leva ett långt och lyckligt liv, eller att inte ge henne en andra chans? Hade du levat, flickan min, hade vårt liv sett helt annorlunda ut nu. Vi hade haft varandra och jag hade aldrig svikit dig.
Uppskatta det du har. Det gör jag, även om jag inte ens har en bild. Minnena består.
The five W's of this thing
Promenad, sol och frisk luft
Hembakad latte på gevalia och mellanmjölk
Leta glödlampor och lampinköps/inredningsplanering
Keldasoppa och baguette
Programmering och julmusik
Som av en händelse klickade jag på 'Nästa blogg' en hel massa igår. What's the deal med alla (läs: sjukt MÅNGA!) bloggar i stil med Jag och mina två prinsar, Hon han och Lillkorven, Familjen xxx, med flera? Vad är det som får folk att skaffa blogg så fort de fått knattar i familjen?
"Hur man vänder sig har man skinkan bak." "Det var väldigt... fint sagt, Werner."
Varför blir jag trött så fort det blir mörkt? Tvingade mig själv att le på tunnelbanan idag. Le mot den översminkade och högst välklädda damen som såg ut som en av de som snörpt på munnen för mycket i sin dag men som har något finurligt kvar långt inom sig. Le mot den storögda bebisen i vagnen medan modern blängde under lugg innan hon kom fram till att jag inte utgjorde något hot. Till och med le åt kassörskan på Sleven. Mest av allt le för mig själv, och kände för en liten stund att jag faktiskt var rätt så pigg i alla fall. Positivt överraskad. Fick min efterlängtade latte och blev inte ens irriterad över att det regnade inte så lite. Varm tröja, inte för mycket att bära på, kaffe och regnjacka. Kläder efter väder och humör efter personligt behov. Seger.
Knallade in i föreläsningssalen och hittade första bästa plats tillräckligt långt ned (jag varken ser eller hör om jag sitter längre bak än tredje raden. Jag har faktiskt inte dålig hörsel, men jag börjar se sämre på långt håll igen... dessutom är jag för kort för att se vad som sker på tavlan medan det händer, så att säga). Blängde lite ut över församlingen men satte mig bland okändisar ändå. Skygglappar på och fokus framåt. Ursäkta om någon tycker jag är otrevlig, men när Doris ska fokusera får inget komma i vägen. Läste till och med Calculus i pausen, och förstod nästan allt Axel sade. Kanske fungerar det att vara helt asocial inför en KS/tenta? Tar folk illa upp så får de helt enkelt vänja sig.
Stannade vid grillen på vägen hem, och kom mig inte ens för att bli förnärmad när kassamannen som arbetade ensam vid middagstid frågade om prinsessan ville ha salt eller krydda på pommesen. Gick hem från tuben och njöt av den friska luften istället för att klaga på regnet och mörkret. Kom hem och åt middag, och behöll samma goda humör på ett ovanligt otvingat sätt. Öppnade Calculus och satte mig ned med nyinköpt penna i hand. Kom plötsligt på att vi fått uppgifter till morgondagens KS och att jag lovat mig själv att jag inte skulle vänta till sista minuten med att göra dem. Tänkte inte så mycket på det utan gav mig den på att fixa dem. Det är bara att sitta uppe tills jag är färdig - end of story. Läste första frågan. Förklara vad en Riemannsumma är.
Jag vet vad en sådan är, men som Axel uttrycker det så får jag fortfarande magknip av sigmanotation. Inte för att jag inte vet vad det står för, utan för att jag inte vet hur jag ska hantera den. Binomialsatsen är ju liksom inte applicerbar på det vi håller på med nu (?). Ska man kunna standardsummorna utantill, eller finns det något finurligt sätt att räkna ut dem på? Samma fråga har Doris när det gäller gränsvärdena - om man inte har en aning om hur grafen ser ut eller hur man ska skissera den - komplett med hål och öppna/slutna intervall, etc - hur gör man då? Det är för mycket notation... om summan går från 1 till n, var i hela friden kommer a och b från när vi skriver om hela konkarongen till en fin integral?
Nu var det inte riktigt det som var poängen med det här inlägget. Poängen var att jag alltid blir trött så fort det blir mörkt, vilket är högst opraktiskt och ganska ologiskt med tanke på att vi lever i en av de mörkaste delarna av världen. Julsångerna går på repeat och Doris drömmer om julstök och dekorerande... till och med julstädning till Tänd ett ljus och Vår julskinka har rymt. Glögg och pepparkakor. Snö och juldekorationer. Paketinslagning och till och med julshopping ses fram emot. Det är faktiskt jul om mindre än en månad. Vill ha tända ljus, grandoft, julsånger och glögg.
"Javisst ja - det går precis lika bra med selleri!"
Envarren kräver insats A.K.A. Lite frisk luft never killed anybody
Ett lyft behövs. Ryck upp dig, the doom is approaching. Matte C var ju favoritmatten i gymnasiet ju! You can do it!! Spenderar alldeles för mycket tid på oviktiga saker som fejjsbook när life is at stake, så att säga. I kinda make my living studying, so where the hell’s the positive attitude?? It’s your life we’re talking about here!! Hädanefter ska minst 4 engagerade timmar per dag läggas på fokuserat studerande, om det så krävs litervis med kaffe och andra onyttigheter för att hålla Doris upprätt. Gå upp åtta varje dag även om skolan inte börjar förrän 10.00 - och varför inte gå? Det tar faktiskt KORTARE tid att gå än att ta tuben. Tuben kan tas på kvällarna när det blivit mörkt mörkt. Då kan man få vara lat för en liten liten stund tills man kommer hem. Frisk luft piggar upp, sägs det. Inga orimliga mål, bara sådant som jag kan klara av och som skulle göra mig gott. Inget tjafs om att idag är början på ditt nya liv, bara små förbättringar som gör dig stolt över dig själv. Räta på dig kvinna, det är dags att sätta ned foten. Nu.
Älskar tyget på ett väldigt mysig-skogsmulle-aktigt sätt. Klicka.
Åh, och allas vår Michelle (som utan undantag alltid får mina fingrar att klia och kreativitetshjärncellerna att hoppa av glädje... för att inte tala om att plånboken vill gå och gömma sig när Doris drömmer om symaskin och finfina tyger) har superduperrea på Etsy på fredag. Fredag, däggdjur, förstått?? KLICKA.
Forget that you had a life, little girl. Ignore the signs, shut out the light, work til you drop.
Calculus + Zuul + Tvätt + Långa Brev = vecka 48
"There are in this world optimists who feel that any symbol that starts off with an integral sign must necessarily denote something that will have every property that they should like an integral to possess. This of course is quite annoying to us rigorous mathematicians; what is even more annoying is that by doing so they often come up with the right answer."
- E.J. McShane
"There are in this world optimists who feel that any symbol that starts off with an integral sign must necessarily denote something that will have every property that they should like an integral to possess. This of course is quite annoying to us rigorous mathematicians; what is even more annoying is that by doing so they often come up with the right answer."
- E.J. McShane
Klicka ännu mer. Du kommer inte ångra dig: Christmas sale at MacGowan's
"Once again the Christmas season is upon us and the MacGowan shop is crammed full of custom orders in various states of completion. From rough cut and glued, to finely sanded and wet with a final coat of finish - each and every stage of the tankard making process is currently represented..."
Stavningsproblemen och korrigeringsmotviljan säger allt.
Kanske vill man ringa mamsen, kanske inte. Kanske är det bara antiförväntan inför kommande vecka utan älsklingen på tråden, kanske bara för att det är kallt, mörkt, vått, avsaknad av badkar och vaken sedan typ 30 timmar sånär som på en effektiv powernap, en ineffektiv powernap samt två timmars försök till sömn och ingen tid att duscha i morse som gör mig så fantabulöst löjligt lat... plugga calculus, sova, duscha, titta på film, läsa en bok, vad göra? Tycker det där som börjar på d låter som en bra början. Sen får vi se. Förmodligen tights, ulliga julsockar och The Queen... bara en liten liten film som jag på något sätt trivs oerhört bra med om det inte var för Michael Sheens cheshire cat grin. men det kan han ju inte hjälpa... bra film, faktiskt. Vet inte varför, den bara är det. Verklig, kanske man kan säga. Så kallat dåliga actionfilmer i all ära, men man måste vara på ett ganska speciellt humör för att klara av det. Speciellt en fredageftermiddag i regnig hufvudstad när man ör inne på sin 30:e vakna timma. Ungefär. Kanske te och några filmer, eller julmusik och HST-letande på ebay? Näe, det var en dålig idé... julpengar ska sparas till julklappar och förhoppningsvis går julafton åtminstone på ett ungefär jämnt ut. Det återstår att se. Sorgligt när ens favorithögtid handlar mest om vem som har städat bäst och vilka som får bäst julklappar... kanske en shoppingrunda imorrn kan lösa något av den annalkande julstressen som inte riktigt har knackat mig på axeln än? Nä, nu får det vara bra. Varmvattnet kallar.
Uppsats, uppsats, uppsats, vi älskar uppsats, och uppsats, med alla tillbehör! A.K.A. Tired Ramblings of an Optimistic Pessimist
Batterierna ska laddas med Remi ("kex för chokladälskare" - ni vet, de där som man aldrig fick ta tillräckligt många av när man var liten och det enda man fick äta i stora mängder var smaklösa (och onaturligt torra) Mariekex). På det två sockerbomber från T-Snabben (prisa gud för T-Snabbens läskpriser) och en nyligen avslutad Slevenlatte samtidigt som skräckblandad förtjusning över Windows 7 (Ultimate... har bara Professional, men i gengäld var det g r a t i s) gicks igenom i månadens datormagasin och uppsatspeppandet och konkurrensignorerandet togs upp i terminens första nummer av Studentliv till och med. Hepp. Här ska skrivas uppsats. Heja Word 2007 (och PDF-konverteraren som ficks att fungera efter en onormalt fiffig ominstallering från Doris sida). För att inte tala om att datorn installerade skrivaren automatiskt, medan min gamla bebis helt har tappat bort den.
Hunter on Ducati. Gonzo by Ralph Steadman.
Om någon kan tala om 1. Hur i hela friden man får sidnumreringen att börja på sida 4 i Word 2007 2. Varför BlueJ (BlåJaej) inte fungerar trots uppdatering av både den och JDKn 3. Varför ingen uppfunnit en lock out app. till facebook och myspace (i djungeln av totalt onödiga appar i form av FarmVille, MafiaWars, gifts mm mm mm i all oändlighet, finns det inte e n e n d a vettig människa?). Om någon kan svara på (minst) en av dessa frågor blir ni vardagshjälte för en dag. Resten av idag. Hittelön utlovas inte. Ehm. Men, uppsats ska skrivas!! Nu jävlar annammat ska det skrivas och vässas och Word 2007as så mycket det bara går (läs: tills *skiten* är färdig). Men, vi älskar Hunter S. Thompson och nyjournalistik, eller hur? Ja det gör vi!! Hot tamale, hot hot tamale, nu kör vi!! Yeeeeha! He. Hejdå.
Late Wisdom (just cause it rocks)
It was just after dawn in Woody Creek, Colo., when the first plane hit the World Trade Center in New York City on Tuesday morning, and as usual I was writing about sports. But not for long. Football suddenly seemed irrelevant, compared to the scenes of destruction and utter devastation coming out of New York on TV.
Even ESPN was broadcasting war news. It was the worst disaster in the history of the United States, including Pearl Harbor, the San Francisco earthquake and probably the Battle of Antietam in 1862, when 23,000 were slaughtered in one day.
The Battle of the World Trade Center lasted about 99 minutes and cost 20,000 lives in two hours (according to unofficial estimates as of midnight Tuesday). The final numbers, including those from the supposedly impregnable Pentagon, across the Potomac River from Washington, likely will be higher. Anything that kills 300 trained firefighters in two hours is a world-class disaster.
And it was not even Bombs that caused this massive damage. No nuclear missiles were launched from any foreign soil, no enemy bombers flew over New York and Washington to rain death on innocent Americans. No. It was four commercial jetliners.
They were the first flights of the day from American and United Airlines, piloted by skilled and loyal U.S. citizens, and there was nothing suspicious about them when they took off from Newark, N.J., and Dulles in D.C. and Logan in Boston on routine cross-country flights to the West Coast with fully-loaded fuel tanks -- which would soon explode on impact and utterly destroy the world-famous Twin Towers of downtown Manhattan's World Trade Center. Boom! Boom! Just like that.
The towers are gone now, reduced to bloody rubble, along with all hopes for Peace in Our Time, in the United States or any other country. Make no mistake about it: We are At War now -- with somebody -- and we will stay At War with that mysterious Enemy for the rest of our lives.
It will be a Religious War, a sort of Christian Jihad, fueled by religious hatred and led by merciless fanatics on both sides. It will be guerilla warfare on a global scale, with no front lines and no identifiable enemy. Osama bin Laden may be a primitive "figurehead" -- or even dead, for all we know -- but whoever put those All-American jet planes loaded with All-American fuel into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon did it with chilling precision and accuracy. The second one was a dead-on bullseye. Straight into the middle of the skyscraper.
Nothing -- even George Bush's $350 billion "Star Wars" missile defense system -- could have prevented Tuesday's attack, and it cost next to nothing to pull off. Fewer than 20 unarmed Suicide soldiers from some apparently primitive country somewhere on the other side of the world took out the World Trade Center and half the Pentagon with three quick and costless strikes on one day. The efficiency of it was terrifying.
We are going to punish somebody for this attack, but just who or what will be blown to smithereens for it is hard to say. Maybe Afghanistan, maybe Pakistan or Iraq, or possibly all three at once. Who knows? Not even the Generals in what remains of the Pentagon or the New York papers calling for WAR seem to know who did it or where to look for them.
This is going to be a very expensive war, and Victory is not guaranteed -- for anyone, and certainly not for anyone as baffled as George W. Bush. All he knows is that his father started the war a long time ago, and that he, the goofy child-President, has been chosen by Fate and the global Oil industry to finish it Now. He will declare a National Security Emergency and clamp down Hard on Everybody, no matter where they live or why. If the guilty won't hold up their hands and confess, he and the Generals will ferret them out by force.
Good luck. He is in for a profoundly difficult job -- armed as he is with no credible Military Intelligence, no witnesses and only the ghost of Bin Laden to blame for the tragedy.
OK. It is 24 hours later now, and we are not getting much information about the Five Ws of this thing. The numbers out of the Pentagon are baffling, as if Military Censorship has already been imposed on the media. It is ominous. The only news on TV comes from weeping victims and ignorant speculators.
The lid is on. Loose Lips Sink Ships. Don't say anything that might give aid to The Enemy.
-- Dr. Hunter S. Thompson
“It aimed to abandon the pretence of objectivity to present compelling portraits of the jangled reality of contemporary life..."
Tis quite fitting, isn't it? On a bus, listening to Sympathy For The Devil while researching Hunter S. Thompson? No typewriter, but a brand new laptop straight out of a KTH bag that almost didn't hold everything I packed... Yes Sir, I'm a Computer Geek now, owning two computers and everything. Upgrade to Windows 7 in Swedish or English? I Dunno. I want both. Preferrably in the same computer. But nevermind all that. Kinda nautious from a delicious vanilla latte from Coffy's when I haven't had a single coffee since Friday. How did I survive? Possibly that's why I'm desperately trying to write my essay on the bus on a pretty calm high way... no rain now. That's good. No Fear. Only confusion every now and then. Yes, I've been reading too much HST. Again. And so much for that. I like it. So what if my brain turns into jelly for a wee bit?
Sweet home... seeing Ämma, writing essay on HST, talking to my sweetheart every so often. Life's good. So far. And why the hell not? Don't let anyone step on your toes, man. Even if the toes happen to be kinda overly sensitive at times. Gonna read another masterpiece now. Ladies and gentlemen - The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent And Depraved. All (of course) copyright Hunter S. Thompson, property of the Hunter S. Thompson Estate and all of that. Anita's blog rocks, by the way. You should all read it - www.owlfarmblog.com
Ralph Steadman, everybody:
Sweet home... seeing Ämma, writing essay on HST, talking to my sweetheart every so often. Life's good. So far. And why the hell not? Don't let anyone step on your toes, man. Even if the toes happen to be kinda overly sensitive at times. Gonna read another masterpiece now. Ladies and gentlemen - The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent And Depraved. All (of course) copyright Hunter S. Thompson, property of the Hunter S. Thompson Estate and all of that. Anita's blog rocks, by the way. You should all read it - www.owlfarmblog.com
Ralph Steadman, everybody:
THE KENTUCKY DERBY IS DECADENT AND DEPRAVED
“I got off the plane around midnight and no one spoke as I crossed the dark runway to the terminal. The air was thick and hot, like wandering into a steam bath. Inside, people hugged each other and shook hands…big grins and a whoop here and there: “By God! You old bastard! Good to see you, boy! Damn good…and I mean it!”
In the air-conditioned lounge I met a man from Houston who said his name was something or other–”but just call me Jimbo”–and he was here to get it on. “I’m ready for anything, by God! Anything at all. Yeah, what are you drinkin?” I ordered a Margarita with ice, but he wouldn’t hear of it: “Naw, naw…what the hell kind of drink is that for Kentucky Derby time? What’s wrong with you, boy?” He grinned and winked at the bartender. “Goddam, we gotta educate this boy. Get him some good whiskey…”
I shrugged. “Okay, a double Old Fitz on ice.” Jimbo nodded his approval.
“Look.” He tapped me on the arm to make sure I was listening. “I know this Derby crowd, I come here every year, and let me tell you one thing I’ve learned–this is no town to be giving people the impression you’re some kind of faggot. Not in public, anyway. Shit, they’ll roll you in a minute, knock you in the head and take every goddam cent you have.”
I thanked him and fitted a Marlboro into my cigarette holder. “Say,” he said, “you look like you might be in the horse business…am I right?”
“No,” I said. “I’m a photographer.”
“Oh yeah?” He eyed my ragged leather bag with new interest. “Is that what you got there–cameras? Who you work for?”
“Playboy,” I said.
He laughed. “Well, goddam! What are you gonna take pictures of–nekkid horses? Haw! I guess you’ll be workin’ pretty hard when they run the Kentucky Oaks. That’s a race just for fillies.” He was laughing wildly. “Hell yes! And they’ll all be nekkid too!”
I shook my head and said nothing; just stared at him for a moment, trying to look grim. “There’s going to be trouble,” I said. “My assignment is to take pictures of the riot.”
“What riot?”
I hesitated, twirling the ice in my drink. “At the track. On Derby Day. The Black Panthers.” I stared at him again. “Don’t you read the newspapers?”
The grin on his face had collapsed. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“Well…maybe I shouldn’t be telling you…” I shrugged. “But hell, everybody else seems to know. The cops and the National Guard have been getting ready for six weeks. They have 20,000 troops on alert at Fort Knox. They’ve warned us–all the press and photographers–to wear helmets and special vests like flak jackets. We were told to expect shooting…”
“No!” he shouted; his hands flew up and hovered momentarily between us, as if to ward off the words he was hearing. Then he whacked his fist on the bar. “Those sons of bitches! God Almighty! The Kentucky Derby!” He kept shaking his head. “No! Jesus! That’s almost too bad to believe!” Now he seemed to be sagging on the stool, and when he looked up his eyes were misty. “Why? Why here? Don’t they respect anything?“
I shrugged again. “It’s not just the Panthers. The FBI says busloads of white crazies are coming in from all over the country–to mix with the crowd and attack all at once, from every direction. They’ll be dressed like everybody else. You know–coats and ties and all that. But when the trouble starts…well, that’s why the cops are so worried.”
He sat for a moment, looking hurt and confused and not quite able to digest all this terrible news. Then he cried out: “Oh…Jesus! What in the name of God is happening in this country? Where can you get away from it?”
“Not here,” I said, picking up my bag. “Thanks for the drink…and good luck.”
He grabbed my arm, urging me to have another, but I said I was overdue at the Press Club and hustled off to get my act together for the awful spectacle. At the airport newsstand I picked up a Courier-Journal and scanned the front page headlines: “Nixon Sends GI’s into Cambodia to Hit Reds”… “B-52’s Raid, then 20,000 GI’s Advance 20 Miles”…”4,000 U.S. Troops Deployed Near Yale as Tension Grows Over Panther Protest.” At the bottom of the page was a photo of Diane Crump, soon to become the first woman jockey ever to ride in the Kentucky Derby. The photographer had snapped her “stopping in the barn area to fondle her mount, Fathom.” The rest of the paper was spotted with ugly war news and stories of “student unrest.” There was no mention of any trouble brewing at university in Ohio called Kent State.
I went to the Hertz desk to pick up my car, but the moon-faced young swinger in charge said they didn’t have any. “You can’t rent one anywhere,” he assured me. “Our Derby reservations have been booked for six weeks.” I explained that my agent had confirmed a white Chrysler convertible for me that very afternoon but he shook his head. “Maybe we’ll have a cancellation. Where are you staying?”
I shrugged. “Where’s the Texas crowd staying? I want to be with my people.”
He sighed. “My friend, you’re in trouble. This town is flat full. Always is, for the Derby.”
I leaned closer to him, half-whispering: “Look, I’m from Playboy. How would you like a job?”
He backed off quickly. “What? Come on, now. What kind of a job?”
“Never mind,” I said. “You just blew it.” I swept my bag off the counter and went to find a cab. The bag is a valuable prop in this kind of work; mine has a lot of baggage tags on it–SF, LA, NY, Lima, Rome, Bangkok, that sort of thing–and the most prominent tag of all is a very official, plastic-coated thing that says “Photog. Playboy Mag.” I bought it from a pimp in Vail, Colorado, and he told me how to use it. “Never mention Playboy until you’re sure they’ve seen this thing first,” he said. “Then, when you see them notice it, that’s the time to strike. They’ll go belly up ever time. This thing is magic, I tell you. Pure magic.”
Well…maybe so. I’d used it on the poor geek in the bar, and now humming along in a Yellow Cab toward town, I felt a little guilty about jangling the poor bugger’s brains with that evil fantasy. But what the hell? Anybody who wanders around the world saying, “Hell yes, I’m from Texas,” deserves whatever happens to him. And he had, after all, come here once again to make a nineteenth-century ass of himself in the midst of some jaded, atavistic freakout with nothing to recommend it except a very saleable “tradition.” Early in our chat, Jimbo had told me that he hadn’t missed a Derby since 1954. “The little lady won’t come anymore,” he said. “She grits her teeth and turns me loose for this one. And when I say ‘loose’ I do mean loose! I toss ten-dollar bills around like they were goin’ out of style! Horses, whiskey, women…shit, there’s women in this town that’ll do anything for money.”
Why not? Money is a good thing to have in these twisted times. Even Richard Nixon is hungry for it. Only a few days before the Derby he said, “If I had any money I’d invest it in the stock market.” And the market, meanwhile, continued its grim slide.
**********
The next day was heavy. With only thirty hours until post time I had no press credentials and–according to the sports editor of the Louisville Courier-Journal–no hope at all of getting any. Worse, I needed two sets: one for myself and another for Ralph Steadman, the English illustrator who was coming from London to do some Derby drawings. All I knew about him was that this was his first visit to the United States. And the more I pondered the fact, the more it gave me fear. How would he bear up under the heinous culture shock of being lifted out of London and plunged into the drunken mob scene at the Kentucky Derby? There was no way of knowing. Hopefully, he would arrive at least a day or so ahead, and give himself time to get acclimated. Maybe a few hours of peaceful sightseeing in the Bluegrass country around Lexington. My plan was to pick him up at the airport in the huge Pontiac Ballbuster I’d rented from a used-car salesman name Colonel Quick, then whisk him off to some peaceful setting that might remind him of England.
Colonel Quick had solved the car problem, and money (four times the normal rate) had bought two rooms in a scumbox on the outskirts of town. The only other kink was the task of convincing the moguls at Churchill Downs that Scanlan’s was such a prestigious sporting journal that common sense compelled them to give us two sets of the best press tickets. This was not easily done. My first call to the publicity office resulted in total failure. The press handler was shocked at the idea that anyone would be stupid enough to apply for press credentials two days before the Derby. “Hell, you can’t be serious,” he said. “The deadline was two months ago. The press box is full; there’s no more room…and what the hell is Scanlan’s Monthly anyway?”
I uttered a painful groan. “Didn’t the London office call you? They’re flying an artist over to do the paintings. Steadman. He’s Irish. I think. Very famous over there. Yes. I just got in from the Coast. The San Francisco office told me we were all set.”
He seemed interested, and even sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do. I flattered him with more gibberish, and finally he offered a compromise: he could get us two passes to the clubhouse grounds but the clubhouse itself and especially the press box were out of the question.
“That sounds a little weird,” I said. “It’s unacceptable. We must have access tp everything. All of it. The spectacle, the people, the pageantry and certainly the race. You don’t think we came all this way to watch the damn thing on television, do you? One way or another we’ll get inside. Maybe we’ll have to bribe a guard–or even Mace somebody.” (I had picked up a spray can of Mace in a downtown drugstore for $5.98 and suddenly, in the midst of that phone talk, I was struck by the hideous possibilities of using it out at the track. Macing ushers at the narrow gates to the clubhouse inner sanctum, then slipping quickly inside, firing a huge load of Mace into the governor’s box, just as the race starts. Or Macing helpless drunks in the clubhouse restroom, for their own good…)
By noon on Friday I was still without press credentials and still unable to locate Steadman. For all I knew he’d changed his mind and gone back to London. Finally, after giving up on Steadman and trying unsuccessfully to reach my man in the press office, I decided my only hope for credentials was to go out to the track and confront the man in person, with no warning–demanding only one pass now, instead of two, and talking very fast with a strange lilt in my voice, like a man trying hard to control some inner frenzy. On the way out, I stopped at the motel desk to cash a check. Then, as a useless afterthought, I asked if by any wild chance a Mr. Steadman had checked in.
The lady on the desk was about fifty years old and very peculiar-looking; when I mentioned Steadman’s name she nodded, without looking up from whatever she was writing, and said in a low voice, “You bet he did.” Then she favored me with a big smile. “Yes, indeed. Mr. Steadman just left for the racetrack. Is he a friend of yours?”
I shook my head. “I’m supposed to be working with him, but I don’t even know what he looks like. Now, goddammit, I’ll have to find him in the mob at the track.”
She chuckled. “You won’t have any trouble finding him. You could pick that man out of any crowd.”
“Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong with him? What does he look like?”
“Well…” she said, still grinning, “he’s the funniest looking thing I’ve seen in a long time. He has this…ah…this growth all over his face. As a matter of fact it’s all over his head.” She nodded. “You’ll know him when you see him; don’t worry about that.”
Creeping Jesus, I thought. That screws the press credentials. I had a vision of some nerve-rattling geek all covered with matted hair and string-warts showing up in the press office and demanding Scanlan’s press packet. Well…what the hell? We could always load up on acid and spend the day roaming around the clubhouse grounds with bit sketch pads, laughing hysterically at the natives and swilling mint juleps so the cops wouldn’t think we’re abnormal. Perhaps even make the act pay; set up an easel with a big sign saying, “Let a Foreign Artist Paint Your Portrait, $10 Each. Do It NOW!”
**********
I took the expressway out to the track, driving very fast and jumping the monster car back and forth between lanes, driving with a beer in one hand and my mind so muddled that I almost crushed a Volkswagen full of nuns when I swerved to catch the right exit. There was a slim chance, I thought, that I might be able to catch the ugly Britisher before he checked in.
But Steadman was already in the press box when I got there, a bearded young Englishman wearing a tweed coat and RAF sunglasses. There was nothing particularly odd about him. No facial veins or clumps of bristly warts. I told him about the motel woman’s description and he seemed puzzled. “Don’t let it bother you,” I said. “Just keep in mind for the next few days that we’re in Louisville, Kentucky. Not London. Not even New York. This is a weird place. You’re lucky that mental defective at the motel didn’t jerk a pistol out of the cash register and blow a big hole in you.” I laughed, but he looked worried.
“Just pretend you’re visiting a huge outdoor loony bin,” I said. “If the inmates get out of control we’ll soak them down with Mace.” I showed him the can of “Chemical Billy,” resisting the urge to fire it across the room at a rat-faced man typing diligently in the Associated Press section. We were standing at the bar, sipping the management’s Scotch and congratulating each other on our sudden, unexplained luck in picking up two sets of fine press credentials. The lady at the desk had been very friendly to him, he said. “I just told her my name and she gave me the whole works.”
By midafternoon we had everything under control. We had seats looking down on the finish line, color TV and a free bar in the press room, and a selection of passes that would take us anywhere from the clubhouse roof to the jockey room. The only thing we lacked was unlimited access to the clubhouse inner sanctum in sections “F&G”…and I felt we needed that, to see the whiskey gentry in action. The governor, a swinish neo-Nazi hack named Louis Nunn, would be in “G,” along with Barry Goldwater and Colonel Sanders. I felt we’d be legal in a box in “G” where we could rest and sip juleps, soak up a bit of atmosphere and the Derby’s special vibrations.
The bars and dining rooms are also in “F&G,” and the clubhouse bars on Derby Day are a very special kind of scene. Along with the politicians, society belles and local captains of commerce, every half-mad dingbat who ever had any pretensions to anything at all within five hundred miles of Louisville will show up there to get strutting drunk and slap a lot of backs and generally make himself obvious. The Paddock bar is probably the best place in the track to sit and watch faces. Nobody minds being stared at; that’s what they’re in there for. Some people spend most of their time in the Paddock; they can hunker down at one of the many wooden tables, lean back in a comfortable chair and watch the ever-changing odds flash up and down on the big tote board outside the window. Black waiters in white serving jackets move through the crowd with trays of drinks, while the experts ponder their racing forms and the hunch bettors pick lucky numbers or scan the lineup for right-sounding names. There is a constant flow of traffic to and from the pari-mutuel windows outside in the wooden corridors. Then, as post time nears, the crowd thins out as people go back to their boxes.
Clearly, we were going to have to figure out some way to spend more time in the clubhouse tomorrow. But the “walkaround” press passes to F&G were only good for thirty minutes at a time, presumably to allow the newspaper types to rush in and out for photos or quick interviews, but to prevent drifters like Steadman and me from spending all day in the clubhouse, harassing the gentry and rifling the odd handbag or two while cruising around the boxes. Or Macing the governor. The time limit was no problem on Friday, but on Derby Day the walkaround passes would be in heavy demand. And since it took about ten minutes to get from the press box to the Paddock, and ten more minutes to get back, that didn’t leave much time for serious people-watching. And unlike most of the others in the press box, we didn’t give a hoot in hell what was happening on the track. We had come there to watch the real beasts perform.
**********
Later Friday afternoon, we went out on the balcony of the press box and I tried to describe the difference between what we were seeing today and what would be happening tomorrow. This was the first time I’d been to a Derby in ten years, but before that, when I lived in Louisville, I used to go every year. Now, looking down from the press box, I pointed to the huge grassy meadow enclosed by the track. “That whole thing,” I said, “will be jammed with people; fifty thousand or so, and most of them staggering drunk. It’s a fantastic scene–thousands of people fainting, crying, copulating, trampling each other and fighting with broken whiskey bottles. We’ll have to spend some time out there, but it’s hard to move around, too many bodies.”
“Is it safe out there?” Will we ever come back?”
“Sure,” I said. “We’ll just have to be careful not to step on anybody’s stomach and start a fight.” I shrugged. “Hell, this clubhouse scene right below us will be almost as bad as the infield. Thousands of raving, stumbling drunks, getting angrier and angrier as they lose more and more money. By midafternoon they’ll be guzzling mint juleps with both hands and vomitting on each other between races. The whole place will be jammed with bodies, shoulder to shoulder. It’s hard to move around. The aisles will be slick with vomit; people falling down and grabbing at your legs to keep from being stomped. Drunks pissing on themselves in the betting lines. Dropping handfuls of money and fighting to stoop over and pick it up.”
He looked so nervous that I laughed. “I’m just kidding,” I said. “Don’t worry. At the first hint of trouble I’ll start pumping this ‘Chemical Billy’ into the crowd.”
He had done a few good sketches, but so far we hadn’t seen that special kind of face that I felt we would need for a lead drawing. It was a face I’d seen a thousand times at every Derby I’d ever been to. I saw it, in my head, as the mask of the whiskey gentry–a pretentious mix of booze, failed dreams and a terminal identity crisis; the inevitable result of too much inbreeding in a closed and ignorant culture. One of the key genetic rules in breeding dogs, horses or any other kind of thoroughbred is that close inbreeding tends to magnify the weak points in a bloodline as well as the strong points. In horse breeding, for instance, there is a definite risk in breeding two fast horses who are both a little crazy. The offspring will likely be very fast and also very crazy. So the trick in breeding thoroughbreds is to retain the good traits and filter out the bad. But the breeding of humans is not so wisely supervised, particularly in a narrow Southern society where the closest kind of inbreeding is not only stylish and acceptable, but far more convenient–to the parents–than setting their offspring free to find their own mates, for their own reasons and in their own ways. (”Goddam, did you hear about Smitty’s daughter? She went crazy in Boston last week and married a nigger!”)
So the face I was trying to find in Churchill Downs that weekend was a symbol, in my own mind, of the whole doomed atavistic culture that makes the Kentucky Derby what it is.
On our way back to the motel after Friday’s races I warned Steadman about some of the other problems we’d have to cope with. Neither of us had brought any strange illegal drugs, so we would have to get by on booze. “You should keep in mind,” I said, “that almost everybody you talk to from now on will be drunk. People who seem very pleasant at first might suddenly swing at you for no reason at all.” He nodded, staring straight ahead. He seemed to be getting a little numb and I tried to cheer him up by inviting to dinner that night, with my brother.
Back at the motel we talked for awhile about America, the South, England–just relaxing a bit before dinner. There was no way either of us could have known, at the time, that it would be the last normal conversation we would have. From that point on, the weekend became a vicious, drunken nightmare. We both went completely to pieces. The main problem was my prior attachment to Louisville, which naturally led to meetings with old friends, relatives, etc., many of whom were in the process of falling apart, going mad, plotting divorces, cracking up under the strain of terrible debts or recovering from bad accidents. Right in the middle of the whole frenzied Derby action, a member of my own family had to be institutionalized. This added a certain amount of strain to the situation, and since poor Steadman had no choice but to take whatever came his way, he was subjected to shock after shock.
Another problem was his habit of sketching people he met in the various social situations I dragged him into–then giving them the sketches. The results were always unfortunate. I warned him several times about letting the subjects see his foul renderings, but for some perverse reason he kept doing it. Consequently, he was regarded with fear and loathing by nearly everyone who’d seen or even heard about his work. Ho couldn’t understand it. “It’s sort of a joke,” he kept saying. “Why, in England it’s quite normal. People don’t take offense. They understand that I’m just putting them on a bit.”
“Fuck England,” I said. “This is Middle America. These people regard what you’re doing to them as a brutal, bilious insult. Look what happened last night. I thought my brother was going to tear your head off.”
Steadman shook his head sadly. “But I liked him. He struck me as a very decent, straightforward sort.”
“Look, Ralph,” I said. “Let’s not kid ourselves. That was a very horrible drawing you gave him. It was the face of a monster. It got on his nerves very badly.” I shrugged. “Why in hell do you think we left the restaurant so fast?”
“I thought it was because of the Mace,” he said.
“What Mace?”
He grinned. “When you shot it at the headwaiter, don’t you remember?”
“Hell, that was nothing,” I said. “I missed him…and we were leaving, anyway.”
“But it got all over us,” he said. “The room was full of that damn gas. Your brother was sneezing was and his wife was crying. My eyes hurt for two hours. I couldn’t see to draw when we got back to the motel.”
“That’s right,” I said. “The stuff got on her leg, didn’t it?”
“She was angry,” he said.
“Yeah…well, okay…Let’s just figure we fucked up about equally on that one,” I said. “But from now on let’s try to be careful when we’re around people I know. You won’t sketch them and I won’t Mace them. We’ll just try to relax and get drunk.”
“Right,” he said. “We’ll go native.”
**********
It was Saturday morning, the day of the Big Race, and we were having breakfast in a plastic hamburger palace called the Fish-Meat Village. Our rooms were just across the road in the Brown Suburban Hotel. They had a dining room, but the food was so bad that we couldn’t handle it anymore. The waitresses seemed to be suffering from shin splints; they moved around very slowly, moaning and cursing the “darkies” in the kitchen.
Steadman liked the Fish-Meat place because it had fish and chips. I preferred the “French toast,” which was really pancake batter, fried to the proper thickness and then chopped out with a sort of cookie cutter to resemble pieces of toast.
Beyond drink and lack of sleep, our only real problem at that point was the question of access to the clubhouse. Finally, we decided to go ahead and steal two passes, if necessary, rather than miss that part of the action. This was the last coherent decision we were able to make for the next forty-eight hours. From that point on–almost from the very moment we started out to the track–we lost all control of events and spent the rest of the weekend churning around in a sea of drunken horrors. My notes and recollections from Derby Day are somewhat scrambled.
But now, looking at the big red notebook I carried all through that scene, I see more or less what happened. The book itself is somewhat mangled and bent; some of the pages are torn, others are shriveled and stained by what appears to be whiskey, but taken as a whole, with sporadic memory flashes, the notes seem to tell the story. To wit:
**********
Rain all nite until dawn. No sleep. Christ, here we go, a nightmare of mud and madness…But no. By noon the sun burns through–perfect day, not even humid.
Steadman is now worried about fire. Somebody told him about the clubhouse catching on fire two years ago. Could it happen again? Horrible. Trapped in the press box. Holocaust. A hundred thousand people fighting to get out. Drunks screaming in the flames and the mud, crazed horses running wild. Blind in the smoke. Grandstand collapsing into the flames with us on the roof. Poor Ralph is about to crack. Drinking heavily, into the Haig & Haig.
Out to the track in a cab, avoid that terrible parking in people’s front yards, $25 each, toothless old men on the street with big signs: PARK HERE, flagging cars in the yard. “That’s fine, boy, never mind the tulips.” Wild hair on his head, straight up like a clump of reeds.
Sidewalks full of people all moving in the same direction, towards Churchill Downs. Kids hauling coolers and blankets, teenyboppers in tight pink shorts, many blacks…black dudes in white felt hats with leopard-skin bands, cops waving traffic along.
The mob was thick for many blocks around the track; very slow going in the crowd, very hot. On the way to the press box elevator, just inside the clubhouse, we came on a row of soldiers all carrying long white riot sticks. About two platoons, with helmets. A man walking next to us said they were waiting for the governor and his party. Steadman eyed them nervously. “Why do they have those clubs?”
“Black Panthers,” I said. Then I remembered good old “Jimbo” at the airport and I wondered what he was thinking right now. Probably very nervous; the place was teeming with cops and soldiers. We pressed on through the crowd, through many gates, past the paddock where the jockeys bring the horses out and parade around for a while before each race so the bettors can get a good look. Five million dollars will be bet today. Many winners, more losers. What the hell. The press gate was jammed up with people trying to get in, shouting at the guards, waving strange press badges: Chicago Sporting Times, Pittsburgh Police Athletic League…they were all turned away. “Move on, fella, make way for the working press.” We shoved through the crowd and into the elevator, then quickly up to the free bar. Why not? Get it on. Very hot today, not feeling well, must be this rotten climate. The press box was cool and airy, plenty of room to walk around and balcony seats for watching the race or looking down at the crowd. We got a betting sheet and went outside.
**********
Pink faces with a stylish Southern sag, old Ivy styles, seersucker coats and buttondown collars. “Mayblossom Senility” (Steadman’s phrase)…burnt out early or maybe just not much to burn in the first place. Not much energy in the faces, not much curiosity. Suffering in silence, nowhere to go after thirty in this life, just hang on and humor the children. Let the young enjoy themselves while they can. Why not?
The grim reaper comes early in this league…banshees on the lawn at night, screaming out there beside that little iron nigger in jockey clothes. Maybe he’s the one who’s screaming. Bad DT’s and too many snarls at the bridge club. Going down with the stock market. Oh Jesus, the kid has wrecked the new car, wrapped it around the big stone pillar at the bottom of the driveway. Broken leg? Twisted eye? Send him off to Yale, they can cure anything up there.
Yale? Did you see today’s paper? New Haven is under siege. Yale is swarming with Black Panthers…I tell you, Colonel, the world has gone mad, stone mad. Why, they tell me a goddam woman jockey might ride in the Derby today.
I left Steadman sketching in the Paddock bar and went off to place our bets on the fourth race. When I came back he was staring intently at a group of young men around a table not far away. “Jesus, look at the corruption in that face!” he whispered. “Look at the madness, the fear, the greed!” I looked, then quickly turned my back on the table he was sketching. The face he’d picked out to draw was the face of an old friend of mine, a prep school football star in the good old days with a sleek red Chevy convertible and a very quick hand, it was said, with the snaps of a 32 B brassiere. They called him “Cat Man.”
But now, a dozen years later, I wouldn’t have recognized him anywhere but here, where I should have expected to find him, in the Paddock bar on Derby Day…fat slanted eyes and a pimp’s smile, blue silk suit and his friends looking like crooked bank tellers on a binge…
Steadman wanted to see some Kentucky Colonels, but he wasn’t sure what they looked like. I told him to go back to the clubhouse men’s rooms and look for men in white linen suits vomitting in the urinals. “They’ll usually have large brown whiskey stains on the front of their suits,” I said. “But watch the shoes, that’s the tip-off. Most of them manage to avoid vomitting on their own clothes, but they never miss their shoes.”
In a box not far from ours was Colonel Anna Friedman Goldman, Chairman and Keeper of the Great Seal of the Honorable Order of Kentucky Colonels. Not all the 76 million or so Kentucky Colonels could make it to the Derby this year, but many had kept the faith, and several days prior to the Derby they gathered for their annual dinner at the Seelbach Hotel.
The Derby, the actual race, was scheduled for late afternoon, and as the magic hour approached I suggested to Steadman that we should probably spend some time in the infield, that boiling sea of people across the track from the clubhouse. He seemed a little nervous about it, but since none of the awful things I’d warned him about had happened so far–no race riots, firestorms or savage drunken attacks–he shrugged and said, “Right, let’s do it.”
To get there we had to pass through many gates, each one a step down in status, then through a tunnel under the track. Emerging from the tunnel was such a culture shock that it took us a while to adjust. “God almighty!” Steadman muttered. “This is a…Jesus!” He plunged ahead with his tiny camera, stepping over bodies, and I followed, trying to take notes.
**********
Total chaos, no way to see the race, not even the track…nobody cares. Big lines at the outdoor betting windows, then stand back to watch winning numbers flash on the big board, like a giant bingo game.
Old blacks arguing about bets; “Hold on there, I’ll handle this” (waving pint of whiskey, fistful of dollar bills); girl riding piggyback, T-shirt says, “Stolen from Fort Lauderdale Jail.” Thousands of teen-agers, group singing “Let the Sun Shine In,” ten soldires guarding the American flag and a huge fat drunk wearing a blue football jersey (No. 80) reeling around with quart of beer in hand.
No booze sold out here, too dangerous…no bathrooms either. Muscle Beach…Woodstock…many cops with riot sticks, but no sign of a riot. Far across the track the clubhouse looks like a postcard from the Kentucky Derby.
**********
We went back to the clubhouse to watch the big race. When the crowd stood to face the flag and sing “My Old Kentucky Home,” Steadman faced the crowd and sketched frantically. Somewhere up in the boxes a voice screeched, “Turn around, you hairy freak!” The race itself was only two minutes long, and even from our super-status seats and using 12-power glasses, there was no way to see what really happened to our horses. Holy Land, Ralph’s choice, stumbled and lost his jockey in the final turn. Mine, Silent Screen, had the lead coming into the stretch but faded to fifth at the finish. The winner was a 16-1 shot named Dust Commander.
Moments after the race was over, the crowd surged wildly for the exits, rushing for cabs and busses. The next day’s Courier told of violence in the parking lot; people were punched and trampled, pockets were picked, children lost, bottles hurled. But we missed all this, having retired to the press box for a bit of post-race drinking. By this time we were both half-crazy from too much whiskey, sun fatigue, culture shock, lack of sleep and general dissolution. We hung around the press box long enough to watch a mass interview with the winning owner, a dapper little man named Lehmann who said he had just flown into Louisville that morning from Nepal, where he’d “bagged a record tiger.” The sportswriters murmured their admiration and a waiter filled Lehmann’s glass with Chivas Regal. He had just won $127,000 with a horse that cost him $6,500 two years ago. His occupation, he said, was “retired contractor.” And then he added, with a big grin, “I just retired.”
The rest of the day blurs into madness. The rest of that night too. And all the next day and night. Such horrible things occurred that I can’t bring myself even to think about them now, much less put them down in print. I was lucky to get out at all. One of my clearest memories of that vicious time is Ralph being attacked by one of my old friends in the billiard room of the Pendennis Club in downtown Louisville on Saturday night. The man had ripped his own shirt open to the waist before deciding that Ralph was after his wife. No blows were struck, but the emotional effects were massive. Then, as a sort of final horror, Steadman put his fiendish pen to work and tried to patch things up by doing a little sketch of the girl he’d been accused of hustling. That finished us in the Pedennis.
**********
Sometime around ten-thirty Monday morning I was awakened by a scratching sound at my door. I leaned out of bed and pulled the curtain back just far enough to see Steadman outside. “What the fuck do you want?” I shouted.
“What about having breakfast?” he said.
I lunged out of bed and tried to open the door, but it caught on the night-chain and banged shut again. I couldn’t cope with the chain! The thing wouldn’t come out of the track–so I ripped it out of the wall with a vicious jerk on the door. Ralph didn’t blink. “Bad luck,” he muttered.
I could barely see him. My eyes were swollen almost shut and the sudden burst of sunlight through the door left me stunned and helpless like a sick mole. Steadman was mumbling about sickness and terrible heat; I fell back on the bed and tried to focus on him as he moved around the room in a very distracted way for a few moments, then suddenly darted over to the beer bucket and seized a Colt .45. “Christ,” I said. “You’re getting out of control.”
He nodded and ripped the cap off, taking a long drink. “You know, this is really awful,” he said finally. “I must get out of this place…” he shook his head nervously. “The plane leaves at three-thirty, but I don’t know if I’ll make it.”
I barely heard him. My eyes had finally opened enough for me to foucs on the mirror across the room and I was stunned at the shock of recognition. For a confused instant I thought that Ralph had brought somebody with him–a model for that one special face we’d been looking for. There he was, by God–a puffy, drink-ravaged, disease-ridden caricature…like an awful cartoon version of an old snapshot in some once-proud mother’s family photo album. It was the face we’d been looking for–and it was, of course, my own. Horrible, horrible…
“Maybe I should sleep a while longer,” I said. “Why don’t you go on over to the Fish-Meat place and eat some of those rotten fish and chips? Then come back and get me around noon. I feel too near death to hit the streets at this hour.”
He shook his head. “No…no…I think I’ll go back upstairs and work on those drawings for a while.” He leaned down to fetch two more cans out of the beer bucket. “I tried to work earlier,” he said, “but my hands kept trembling…It’s teddible, teddible.”
“You’ve got to stop this drinking,” I said.
He nodded. “I know. This is no good, no good at all. But for some reason it makes me feel better…”
“Not for long,” I said. “You’ll probably collapse into some kind of hysterical DT’s tonight–probably just about the time you get off the plane at Kennedy. They’ll zip you up in a straightjacket and drag you down to the Tombs, then beat you on the kidneys with big sticks until you straighten out.”
He shrugged and wandered out, pulling the door shut behind him. I went back to bed for another hour or so, and later–after the daily grapefruit juice run to the Nite Owl Food Mart–we had our last meal at Fish-Meat Village: a fine lunch of dough and butcher’s offal, fried in heavy grease.
By this time Ralph wouldn’t order coffee; he kept asking for more water. “It’s the only thing they have that’s fit for human consumption,” he explained. Then, with an hour or so to kill before he had to catch the plane, we spread his drawings out on the table and pondered them for a while, wondering if he’d caught the proper spirit of the thing…but we couldn’t make up our minds. His hands were shaking so badly that he had trouble holding the paper, and my vision was so blurred that I could barely see what he’d drawn. “Shit,” I said. “We both look worse than anything you’ve drawn here.”
He smiled. “You know–I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “We came down here to see this teddible scene: people all pissed out of their minds and vomitting on themselves and all that…and now, you know what? It’s us…”
**********
Huge Pontiac Ballbuster blowing through traffic on the expressway.
A radio news bulletin says the National Guard is massacring students at Kent State and Nixon is still bombing Cambodia. The journalist is driving, ignoring his passenger who is now nearly naked after taking off most of his clothing, which he holds out the window, trying to wind-wash the Mace out of it. His eyes are bright red and his face and chest are soaked with beer he’s been using to rinse the awful chemical off his flesh. The front of his woolen trousers is soaked with vomit; his body is racked with fits of coughing and wild chocking sobs. The journalist rams the big car through traffic and into a spot in front of the terminal, then he reaches over to open the door on the passenger’s side and shoves the Englishman out, snarling: “Bug off, you worthless faggot! You twisted pigfucker! [Crazed laughter.] If I weren’t sick I’d kick your ass all the way to Bowling Green–you scumsucking foreign geek. Mace is too good for you…We can do without your kind in Kentucky.”
Världen i korthet.
Matte är mitt liv. Med små avbrott av Slevenbaserade koffeinkickar (och i Slevens hemland får man INTE ekologiskt italienskt kaffe. Så det så.), märkessyende och andra underbara underbara saker som life throws at you. Och ja, jag är ett perfektionistsvin om alltid renskriver mina anteckningar. Jag hittade INTE bilden nedan med hjälp av allas vår vän Google.
Jag har aldrig älskat rosa (inte sedan jag var tre år i alla fall, och när man är liten bankar omgivningen in att pojkar är blå och flickor är rosa så det räknas inte. Bleh.), men den är ju faktiskt inte rosa! Hört talas om CERISE? Huh? HUH? Klart du har! Och den är INTE rosa - den är CERISE.
What else is new... mitt internet funkar fortfarande inte (alla säger efter mig: Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Not.). Åh! Gardell kommer till stan, eller... uhm, det sa man när man bodde i Limpan... faktum är ju att stackarn faktiskt BOR i den här stan... men hans turné startar i januari på Folkoperan i alla fall. Förhoppningsvis förhoppningsvis förhoppningsvis (håller all tummar och tår) kommer Personlig Parentes Ett och Personlig Parentes Två att vara där, lika upp över öronen som en liten Mjölbyblondin i hatt och trasiga jeans som skriker sig hes och förmodligen svimmar bara av att se en bild av Johan-ponken. Underbart. Åh, och Skype äger. Typ ALLT. Går inte att jämföras... någon som någonsin hört talas om att man kan prata med älsklingen på andra sidan jordklotet (i princip) utan att det kostar en spänn? Och ja ja, jag vet, otåliga parenteser får ge sig till tåls tills överparentes (den jag brukade bo med) har fått sin beskärda del... tillbaka till matten! Puss.
Jag har aldrig älskat rosa (inte sedan jag var tre år i alla fall, och när man är liten bankar omgivningen in att pojkar är blå och flickor är rosa så det räknas inte. Bleh.), men den är ju faktiskt inte rosa! Hört talas om CERISE? Huh? HUH? Klart du har! Och den är INTE rosa - den är CERISE.
What else is new... mitt internet funkar fortfarande inte (alla säger efter mig: Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Not.). Åh! Gardell kommer till stan, eller... uhm, det sa man när man bodde i Limpan... faktum är ju att stackarn faktiskt BOR i den här stan... men hans turné startar i januari på Folkoperan i alla fall. Förhoppningsvis förhoppningsvis förhoppningsvis (håller all tummar och tår) kommer Personlig Parentes Ett och Personlig Parentes Två att vara där, lika upp över öronen som en liten Mjölbyblondin i hatt och trasiga jeans som skriker sig hes och förmodligen svimmar bara av att se en bild av Johan-ponken. Underbart. Åh, och Skype äger. Typ ALLT. Går inte att jämföras... någon som någonsin hört talas om att man kan prata med älsklingen på andra sidan jordklotet (i princip) utan att det kostar en spänn? Och ja ja, jag vet, otåliga parenteser får ge sig till tåls tills överparentes (den jag brukade bo med) har fått sin beskärda del... tillbaka till matten! Puss.
Cause I do assure you that I do adore you.
I don't know what's wrong or right, but I know what's worth a fight, the most radical thing is to do what your heart tells you to.
Klicka klicka klicka... inbäddning avaktiverad? Wtf? Klicka sa jag! ;p
Stryker, tänker, The Ark på repeat, hur kan underbara saker hända i en värld som är så grym? Passar sig inte alls i samma inlägg... makes no sense, smiling like a maniac still, well... hejdå.
Klicka klicka klicka... inbäddning avaktiverad? Wtf? Klicka sa jag! ;p
Stryker, tänker, The Ark på repeat, hur kan underbara saker hända i en värld som är så grym? Passar sig inte alls i samma inlägg... makes no sense, smiling like a maniac still, well... hejdå.
"NINJAHH!!"
Late night ramblings vid en bärbar vars fläkt snart sagt godnatt för gott. Ah, underbara liv. Missa inte HÄR och HÄR#2. Speciellt inte HÄR#2... eller HÄR, för den delen.
MySpace status: New Peanut content (everybody say after me: HOLY CRAP!!) and new plans forming in my mind: www.perfectpeanut.com/webdesign.htm Accomplished/In Love/Crazy ;)
Mood: Happy!! (& a big bad ass *pink* smiley - where's da Like button..?)
Posted 21 seconds ago
MySpace status: New Peanut content (everybody say after me: HOLY CRAP!!) and new plans forming in my mind: www.perfectpeanut.com/webdesign.htm Accomplished/In Love/Crazy ;)
Mood: Happy!! (& a big bad ass *pink* smiley - where's da Like button..?)
Posted 21 seconds ago
Current FB status
...funderar starkt på att starta en grupp vid namn Våga Vägra Internet Explorer bara för att. När man måste brännmärka alla webbsidor i ens ägo med "Best viewed in Firefox" medan merparten av världen fortfarande använder IE - vad göra?
15 minutes ago · Comment · Like
15 minutes ago · Comment · Like
Allt har sin tid
Vad var det jag sa? Omöjligt att hålla sig frisk när 50 pers sitter och hostar på varje föreläsning. Överväger att gå till ICA och införskaffa någon sorts oförskämt dyr glass bara för att, att ätas tillsammans med banan och självömkande kommunikations- och matematikstuderande. Kanske även utvidga den alltjämt exponentiellt växande tesamlingen.
Tålamod är en dygd, däggdjur. Allt har sin tid, och allt delande och ordkrigande och bubblande och allmänt underbart Primärt och Sekundärt Parentesande likaså. Puss.
Tålamod är en dygd, däggdjur. Allt har sin tid, och allt delande och ordkrigande och bubblande och allmänt underbart Primärt och Sekundärt Parentesande likaså. Puss.
Vitt te och i morgon börjar allvaret. Imorrn, däggdjur, imorrn.
CSN har tagit sitt icke-existerande förnuft till fånga och det blir löning på tisdag. Inte löning på fredag. Tisdag.
Snart är Doris fullvärdig medlem av Konglig Datasektionen på Teknis. Det ni. Snart, alltså. Tydligen är vi N0llan i en vecka till, även om man kan tycka att det är färdigschlemmat när man fått passerkort och tillgång till det kungliga byggets innersta dygnet runt. Fast väktarna uppskattar inte att man sover i datasalarna på nätterna...
Vitt te is the shit. I alla fall verkar det så. Visserligen har jag alltid tillräckligt med socker i för att dölja smakförnimmelserna av förgiftningsförsök, men ändå. Och ICA Gärdet hade visst inga kanelbullar, så det blev vanilj istället. Inte N0llans favoritkäk Korv Med Klägg. Vitt te och vaniljbulle. Efter fjärde dagen i rad med pastasås, med en helg av smörgåstårta i hemhemmastaden Limpan med parentesen och densammas födelsedag i mellan. Vissa Limpandjur verkar tycka att Personlig Parentes Två borde skriva mera, men när i hela friden ska jag ha tid med det? Sover hela nätterna, pluggar hela dagarna och pratar med älsklingen hela kvällarna... på något mirakulöst sätt har jag ätit frukost och lunch och ibland middag, åkt en sjuhelvetes massa tunnelbana och tåg och buss och lagat mat och städat och klarat en tenta också. Beundransvärt, eller? Kanske inte, men det känns bra, gott folk. Riktigt bra. Att parentesens födelsedagspresent blev så lyckad att den var värd vilsegående i Stockholms centrum och två besök på Waldemarsudde i stekande hetta samt trafikstockning i 40 minuter på buss med italienska turister utanför Dramaten gör ju inte tillvaron sämre.
Åh. Och Liptons nya (fast de inte är så nya längre) fina tepåsar av äldre tetrapacks tetraederform är ju av något material liknande en korsning mellan myggnät och finmaskig tvättpåse. Man lär sig något nytt varje dag.
Hej och hå och god natt. Imorgon börjar tre kurser bara så där. Tre föreläsningar på raken. Grattis världen och hej Fanta och Godis och Bullens Pastasallader. Puss.
Snart är Doris fullvärdig medlem av Konglig Datasektionen på Teknis. Det ni. Snart, alltså. Tydligen är vi N0llan i en vecka till, även om man kan tycka att det är färdigschlemmat när man fått passerkort och tillgång till det kungliga byggets innersta dygnet runt. Fast väktarna uppskattar inte att man sover i datasalarna på nätterna...
Vitt te is the shit. I alla fall verkar det så. Visserligen har jag alltid tillräckligt med socker i för att dölja smakförnimmelserna av förgiftningsförsök, men ändå. Och ICA Gärdet hade visst inga kanelbullar, så det blev vanilj istället. Inte N0llans favoritkäk Korv Med Klägg. Vitt te och vaniljbulle. Efter fjärde dagen i rad med pastasås, med en helg av smörgåstårta i hemhemmastaden Limpan med parentesen och densammas födelsedag i mellan. Vissa Limpandjur verkar tycka att Personlig Parentes Två borde skriva mera, men när i hela friden ska jag ha tid med det? Sover hela nätterna, pluggar hela dagarna och pratar med älsklingen hela kvällarna... på något mirakulöst sätt har jag ätit frukost och lunch och ibland middag, åkt en sjuhelvetes massa tunnelbana och tåg och buss och lagat mat och städat och klarat en tenta också. Beundransvärt, eller? Kanske inte, men det känns bra, gott folk. Riktigt bra. Att parentesens födelsedagspresent blev så lyckad att den var värd vilsegående i Stockholms centrum och två besök på Waldemarsudde i stekande hetta samt trafikstockning i 40 minuter på buss med italienska turister utanför Dramaten gör ju inte tillvaron sämre.
Åh. Och Liptons nya (fast de inte är så nya längre) fina tepåsar av äldre tetrapacks tetraederform är ju av något material liknande en korsning mellan myggnät och finmaskig tvättpåse. Man lär sig något nytt varje dag.
Hej och hå och god natt. Imorgon börjar tre kurser bara så där. Tre föreläsningar på raken. Grattis världen och hej Fanta och Godis och Bullens Pastasallader. Puss.
Hej bloggen OR Känn dig inte övergiven.
Nya intryck. Överallt. Hela tiden. Tiden ja. Tiden är knapp, tankarna surrar, underbara saker händer, vad ska jag skriva? Vad kan jag skriva? God natt.
Vaniljlatte is the shit
På plats i huvudstaden. Skolan börjar på riktigt imorrn, och jag är riktigt jäkla taggad! Go Stockholm, go Stockholm, gooooooo... Doris! Öhm. Andra skolstarten i mitt liv där jag inte har köpt NÅGONTING (läs pennor/block/almanacka/etc. INTE flyttning, för den vill jag inte veta vad den kostade men parentesen var gracious nog att dela den lilla informationen också). Ursäkta bildbrist - kabeln kommer imorgon. Hej o puss o allt det där fast det knappt är nån som läser det här.
"Bra för att va... svensk!" (Ja, jag växte upp med Magnus Uggla and there's nothin I can do about it) OR In a patisserie-based coffeehouse
"Fika is a Swedish verb that roughly means "to drink coffee", usually accompanied by something sweet on the side.
Fika is a social institution in Sweden; it means having a coffee with one's colleagues, friends, date, or family. The word has quite ambiguous connotations and can mean anything from taking a break from work or other activities, to going on a date. Swedes are among the heaviest consumers of coffee in the world and this practice of taking a break for a coffee, typically with a cinnamon roll and/or some biscuits or cookies, or sometimes a smörgås on the side, is central to Swedish life.
Although the word may in itself imply "taking a break from work", this is often emphasied using the word fikapaus ("fika pause") or fikarast ("fika break"), with kaffepaus and kafferast, respectively, as near synonyms. The shorter word fika may equally well mean having coffee with a friend at a café or konditori (a "patisserie-based coffeehouse"). <--- mitt nya engelska favoritord!
Since the word implies drinking coffee, just having a smörgås or sandwich would not really be fika. Drinking tea, however, is also common, and young people may have lemonade, a soft drink, or milk, instead of coffee. However, in a strict sense, a genuine fika implies coffee.
Fika is also combined in words such as fikabröd ("fika bread") which is a collective name for all kinds of biscuits, cookies, buns, etc that are traditionally eaten with coffee. Non sweetened breads are normally not included in this term (even though these may sometimes be consumed with coffee). Fika is also used as a noun, referring to fikabröd and coffee combined.
The word is an example of the back slang used in the 19th century, in which syllables of a word were reversed, deriving from fika from kaffi, an earlier variant of the Swedish word kaffe ("coffee").[3] From fika also comes the word fik (a colloquial term for "café") through a process of back-formation.
In northern Sweden and some rural areas, fika may mean coffee without any treats: Ta en kopp fika ("Have a cup of coffee")."
Fyratimmars fikadejt med personlig parentes som inte kommer ses röken av på flera månader. Fantabulöst underbart men smått sorligt. Puss.
Jag vill ha en symaskin. Faktiskt.
Jag bor hemma i 4 eller 5 dagar till. Sedan byts det här hemma mot ett annat hemma. Hej då Limpan. Nåt kommer man väl sakna efter 19 år hoppas jag.
Catzzz Mania und nicht much else
Det verkar som att ni får nöja er med det ett tag, däggdjur. Att flytta är ett heltidsjobb.
Semesteranteckningar in translation a.k.a. Train Insanity
Karlstadbor som skulle kolla på National Treasure II* men hade strippat datorn på allt vad media players heter. Inget internet men eluttag. Obamas Dreams from my father och Björn Gustavssons göteborgska melodifestivalenunderhållning som ringsignal. Tåg och hej och hå jag fick åka framåt! Pirates 3 soundtrack i ena örat medan parentes diskuterar min framtid med sagda Karlstadbor som visst tävlar i dart. I landslaget. Där ser man. Intressant hemfärd minsann.
Paul ze head waiter** klipp på minimal mp3-skärm, Divine Idylle*** i björkskogen och doften**** av varmt SJ-tunnbröd som spred sig i kuppen likt sådana där ångor som stiger från de råa biffarna i tecknade filmer medan jag önskade att jag hade Sillstryparns Omoralisk Schlagerfestival***** på min alldeles för pyttelilla musikspelare och förbannade mig själv för bristen på allt vad skrivmaterial heter förutom ett skrynkligt kollegiepapper som var alldeles för skakigt på regionaltåg som nog åkte snabbare än vad stötdämpningen tillät. När jag klarat första tentan ska jag gå till NK och handla utan att titta på prislappen (nästan). Heja plugg och jobb och redan satta i verket planer (nästan).
Made in Asia****** är en sorglig sång javisst, vi närmar oss Flen, och inte vet jag varför den är sorglig då min franska är fruktansvärt eftersatt. Kanske är jag ursäktad då jag aldrig pluggat franska? Pourtant live och inspelning från Zenith = Vanessa Paradis är komplett för idag. På baksidan av samma papper sitter ett guidemärke från Hallwylska. Rekommenderas gott folk. Rekommenderas starkt.
* Book of Secrets. Värd att se? Kanske det. Värd att ägas? Nej. Hyr, däggdjur. Hyr.
** Corpse Bride (ett av Tim Burton's odödliga mästerverk)
**** Öhm… ungefär på samma nivå som snabbmatsångor blandat med varmt vetemjöl ”doftar”. Doftar är inte rätt ord.
***** Se nedanstående inlägg.
*** Divine Idylle
****** Made in Asia
Paul ze head waiter** klipp på minimal mp3-skärm, Divine Idylle*** i björkskogen och doften**** av varmt SJ-tunnbröd som spred sig i kuppen likt sådana där ångor som stiger från de råa biffarna i tecknade filmer medan jag önskade att jag hade Sillstryparns Omoralisk Schlagerfestival***** på min alldeles för pyttelilla musikspelare och förbannade mig själv för bristen på allt vad skrivmaterial heter förutom ett skrynkligt kollegiepapper som var alldeles för skakigt på regionaltåg som nog åkte snabbare än vad stötdämpningen tillät. När jag klarat första tentan ska jag gå till NK och handla utan att titta på prislappen (nästan). Heja plugg och jobb och redan satta i verket planer (nästan).
Made in Asia****** är en sorglig sång javisst, vi närmar oss Flen, och inte vet jag varför den är sorglig då min franska är fruktansvärt eftersatt. Kanske är jag ursäktad då jag aldrig pluggat franska? Pourtant live och inspelning från Zenith = Vanessa Paradis är komplett för idag. På baksidan av samma papper sitter ett guidemärke från Hallwylska. Rekommenderas gott folk. Rekommenderas starkt.
* Book of Secrets. Värd att se? Kanske det. Värd att ägas? Nej. Hyr, däggdjur. Hyr.
** Corpse Bride (ett av Tim Burton's odödliga mästerverk)
**** Öhm… ungefär på samma nivå som snabbmatsångor blandat med varmt vetemjöl ”doftar”. Doftar är inte rätt ord.
***** Se nedanstående inlägg.
*** Divine Idylle
****** Made in Asia
Home sweet home
Okej så då kommer man hem från semstern va. Å så har man bara med sig ETT enda futtigt papper va. Å så ligger man hopplöst efter med matten va. Ja. precis så. Matte först, tyda oläsliga blogganteckningar a la semester style sen. Eller? Duktigt Doris... just grab a coffee, shut up, and get on with it. Kan man smita in i första klass å använda oanvända kaffepoletter när man åker 2:a klass hem till parentesens födelsedag? Kan man det? Ingen tjallar, okej? Jag behöver kaffe även om inte SJ vill ge mig det i efterhand. Hey, jag har faktiskt betalat! För en månad sen. Öhm.
M' tailbone's a bitch
Typ så. Där är felet. Fixa det. Tack. (Priceless by Matthew Gray Gubler a.k.a. The Gube Cube)
Tro det eller ej, men min svanskota har börjat lägga sig i leken igen. Så kan det gå drygt ett år efter våldsam avramling från höga höjder. Och vad kan vi lära oss av den lilla historien? Ett: överglada pållar ska man akta sig för om man sitter löst, och Två: sitt inte stilla på en stol och plugga matte hela sommaren. Se och lär, däggdjur. Se och lär.
Imorgon drar Doris till hufvudstadens vimmel. Först semester, sen flytta. Nu: tillbaka till matematikens förtrollade land.
Hejdå.
Vuxenpoäng?
1) Införskaffat ICA-kort.
2) Blivit förbannad på ett bostadbolag och ringt detsamma bara för att.
3) Köpt gjutjärnsstekpanna.
Jag SKA flytta om jag så får bo i en skokartong.
Coming up: matte, kaffe, matte, matte, matte, kaffe... härliga sommarlov.
2) Blivit förbannad på ett bostadbolag och ringt detsamma bara för att.
3) Köpt gjutjärnsstekpanna.
Jag SKA flytta om jag så får bo i en skokartong.
Coming up: matte, kaffe, matte, matte, matte, kaffe... härliga sommarlov.
Monstergös, hormonrubbbningar och överdådiga ord
"Monstergös satte skräck i badare
Sedan en 70 centimeter lång gös ägnat helgen åt att bita sex badare i benen gick schweiziska polisen till motattack. Först försökte polisens dykare fånga den glupska fisken i Lac Majeur med nät, men när det inte lyckades tog de till ett harpungevär och sköt ihjäl den. Därpå blev semestersabotören filead och uppäten. En lokal fiskexpert säger att det är väldigt ovanligt att gösar biter människor. Möjligen hade den hormonrubbningar."
- Corren 2009/07/15
I brist på annat målas svininfluensan upp till något av ett monster som kommer ha ihjäl halva Sveriges befolkning. Uttryck som Sverige rustar, största massvaccineringen någonsin, stora resurser och pandemi får Svensson att sätta morgonkaffet i vrångstrupen. Jag är läskunnig, faktum är att jag är en hejare på just läsning, men var i dagspressen står det att den så tjusigt benämnda A/H1N1-influensan inte är värre än vilken annan sketen flunsa som helst? Om den drabbar gamla och sjuka kan den vara allvarlig, och en masspridning inom sjukhusets fyra väggar kan naturligtvis få ödesdigra konsekvenser - men för en vanlig dödlig morgontrött Svensson med kaffet i fel strupe betyder den på sin höjd en förkylning, ömmande kroppsdelar och möjligtvis högre eller lägre feber. Inte värre än vinterkräksjukan eller något annat mindre upphetsande.
Correns sommartorka brukar innebära en tunn sladdrig sak till tidning som inte ens räcker frukosten igenom, men just den här sommaren verkar den innebära hormonrubbade firrar, skrämselpropaganda utan ovanligt allvarlig grund, samt en journalist som blev helt till sig i trasorna över Kronprinsessans födelsedag då detta är enda gången varje år som sagda tidning får användning för ord som undersåtar. Och om inte Svensson redan visste det så kommer Victoria bli Sveriges tredje regerande drottning. Girlpower.
En undrande parentes: kan man tycka att blivande prinsen Westling påminner om Boxer-Robert utan att bli kastad i Stockholm slotts officiellt sett oanvända fängelsehålor för nationalförräderi?
Roadtrip a la igår. Det finns mycket att se på den östgötska slätten om man bara vet vart f-- man ska leta bland alla mer eller mindre mysko ortsnamn. Tåkern kanske inte var det roligaste, men 'grisarna' i Gränna dög i regnet.
Lugnet före stormen.
Det var igår det. Idag är det desperation, ångest och sammanbrott.
01.18 * Urval förbereds/körs och jag har varit studera.nus mest ihärdiga besökare idag.
01.18 * Urval förbereds/körs och jag har varit studera.nus mest ihärdiga besökare idag.
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