Ponderment

I have recently embarked on a pondering of my egocentrism and insensitivity towards happenings in the world. I feel as though my mind has been trained not to care about the sufferings of others, be it by myself or outside forces. Why is this? Only yesterday I meandered along the streets of Oslo discussing academic underachievement, life and my ever growing mistrust of the mind-boggling tradition of Russetiden when I saw outside Stortinget a crowd of dark-skinned beauties (Russ and not) standing silently with white pieces of cloth tied as gags on their sad faces. We stopped and stood there in pure wonderment as to what this could be regarding. Of course it was the continuing protest against the indifference we show towards the suffering of innocent people in Sri Lanka. At once I felt a sense of shame to the inexcusable fact that I did not immediately realize this.

70 000 people have been killed.

I was also somewhat surprised that I did not see a single pasty face in the crowd. Do we not feel the need to show our support for these people, loosing family and friends? Could it be a feeling of intrusion on their fellowship and their ability to support each other in their time of grief? I don’t know what I would do if I sat as a helpless spectator to the destruction of my country, innocent people being killed and friends and family in constant upheaval and distress for their lives. I might treasure the support of and “outsider” as much as people in the same situation.

But is this what it takes? Must it happen to me before I care? As I stood on the outskirts of the crown I descried a cadaverous older gentleman in his struggle to bicycle trough the protesting crowd. He seemed as faced by what he was bicycling through as he would an annoying shrubbery…

We however stood watching for a few minutes, talked to a man who gave us some information about the conflict and the meaning of the white cloth; after which we lurked silently away from the protest, commenced with our fairly pointless, but entertaining conversation and had a coffee at Café Sør. One must realize that the shrubbery we passed was not much bigger than that of the bicycling man…

In conclusion: I’m an egocentric douche and you may apply me to your fishy vjayjay at will.


xx

Siren

Haircut of the century!

I blundered about Old Oslo this afternoon trying to find Adam & Eva hair salon in Grønnlandskvartalet... It was not well hidden; it could not have been because I found it after only a short amount of fumble and standing "Joey-esq" in my printed google map. I came there to sit as a hair model for layered bob, done by a lovely punk-chick called Ingvild from Namsos. What I did not know about this "too-good-to-be-true" free haircut, was that this was her exam in bob-cutting. If you are that close to degree number 2, 3 or anything tantamount to your goal in life, you are going to take your time and cut to perfection: hence I sat there for three hours in a trendy, yet uncomfortable plastic chair staring at myself and out the window at the heavenly sunny day outside, unsurpassed by any other spring day this year.

I also learned a lot about Ingvild, the punk from Namsos, who was there at the Pearl Jam concert of doom at Roskilde, plays in a band, wants to travel the world, is in a VERY open relationship with a dude in a band playing at Sentrum Scene tonight etcetera. Lovely Girl!
My cut has a sexy little fringe in the front which I have unlimited AND free trimming opportunities on from my new lover Adam & Eva hair salon!

I have nothing but praise to give the people at Adam & Eva: http://www.adamogeva.no/

Complimentary drinks and cookies, great cutters and good music, what more can one ask for?


Good God I love taking pictures of myself!

Hare Krishna

Siren

Ode to the compliment

How does one know what compliment to shun as masochistic jargon and which to devour favourably without thought of ones future health like an obese gentlemen gobbling down a heart stopping cheeseburger?

During my years at the Roskilde Music Festival the felicitation of my appearance that stuck with me with the most exuberant consistency was a Danish lad saying: "I love your legs!" loudly and considerably out of the blue. The best compliments usually do erupt out of thin bluish air towards the incidentally transient bypasser I sometimes have the honour of being. I have also had the pleasure of a 50 year old man approaching me and saying: "Don't take this as a sexual advance, I am happily married with children of all ages, but you are one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen." These are the things that keep you going; the impromptu greetings of a flattering nature. I try to reciprocate or "do to others what you want done to you" as best I can, but sadly it is usually construed as poorly covered sarcasm or a sexual advance, which it usually is not. My sexual advances are mostly drunken, blurred stutters concerning the infinite beauty I see in the person I want to undress and doink. And sadly, it usually works...

All "compliments" are however not meant as compliments as such, but moreover an ill-conceived mating call: "Hey sexy," "nice"(I heard that one whilst running towards the tram today), "You got some booty on you giiiirl" (heard that one said in the US after gaining 12 kg by some lovely black gentlemen) I believe they know there is no chance of coitus just by saying these things and that the reasoning behind these blurbs of masochistic loveliness is that they see inconceivable beauty and must instantly acknowledge its presence or it will disappear forever!

Hare Krishna my lovelies

Siren (I'm really getting the hang of writing shorter posts!)

I finally won one!

After an immensely mind-nurturing trip to London I found myself compelled to sojourn in the home of my parents life-long hobnobbers the Hansens in Lillehammer. Not thoroughly thought through since I didn't realise I would be stuck in a minuscule town, friendless and with no chance of face to face conversation with anyone outside the Jehovah's Witnesses. It was me and six pure blooded Arian bible-humpersn (two of them my parents). It was a cataclysm of (ironically) biblical proportions. The worst discussion ended in five people trying to keep the peace whilst I, on the verge of tears, tried to stop the "leader" from reciprocating every logical argument I launched into the religiously tainted air with the "brilliant" reproach: the reason your not one of us is that you don't understand how to believe.. Needless to say, I was not overly convinced by this conclusion when asking why God would create an angel with the capability of morphing into the not altogether pleasant Satan, then let him trick us silly little humans and finally punish us for this dreadful act of human nature indefinitely even though we never even got to choose to be created. Preposterous! And why do we have to spend a lifetime making up for his mistakes whilst he watches us and his own son suffer. Its almost like chucking a helpless child into a treacherously wooded garden and watching it helplessly blundering about an unfamiliar place until its death through a window. It was somewhat my own mistake to start a discussion... The man had already refused that tanning-beds have any, and I mean ANY nefarious effects on the human skin. He was adamant that what he had heard was absolute truth, even though he doesn't even use tanning-beds...

This, however unpleasant, is irrelevant. I was outnumbered but not without resolution. My mother is sixty years old and from a lower working-class family. The kind of family that got its first radio long after the television would be in most homes and remembers that first chocolate they shared. She truly believes that vegetarianism is ungratefulness and a trend similar to homosexuality...

Me and Randi (the loveliest and youngest bible-humper of the bunch and understanding of my vegetarianism) decide whip up a delicious pizza. I went to the shop and got some lovely veggies for my side of the pizza and made a renaissance work of art in the world of veggie-pizzas. Randi cut the pizza and warned me while doing so that I should watch out for stray meat-bits on my side... Out of nowhere my mum barks at me like a rabid chihuahua: AAARHHH, what is the big deal? Don't make such a fuss, it's not like you're allergic to a little bit of meat!

I sat a few seconds in stunned silence whilst the other loonies peeped in with her against my delusion until a light bulb suddenly shone above my head with blinding light against my opponents as I answered: as a Jehovah's Witness I seem to remember that you refuse blood transfusions, under ANY circumstances; are you allergic to blood?
They did not retort, it was an awkward supper for everyone except me jubilantly gloating in my corner...

Hare Krishna

Siren

travel

Travel is a peculiar concept to me. I want to traverse all the worlds borders, go to any place that doesn’t have an airport, meet exiting people; I would especially like to meet Baba Ramdev and show him my incredible talent of not being able to touch my toes when I bend over, like an obese man with a beer gut able to hold his beer, fish & chips meal and his obese daughter on one lovable bump. But what we do nowadays is travel to get away. Get away from the monotony of work, school, family life and the like. Have we yet to realise that we don’t really get away from anything?

Whether you’re in (or on, I don’t know) Sunny Beach or the snowy slopes of the Alps, you’re still you! You can’t disconnect your brain when you’re on holiday. You still have your mobile and laptop (by necessity some would say) with you to keep in touch with the very place and life that you’re trying to get away from, if only for a week, ten days or maybe even two weeks. It’s not a sudden splurge of nomadic existence when you get off the plane in Magaluf. I believe there should be mandatory hard drugs on holidays, just too really get ones brainbox away from all the stress and troubles of our own constructed “reality” because we all know that drugs work better than a shitty hotel/beach/drinking binge in Sunny Beach. Alcohol does some of the job, but smoke some heroin or run around on a schizophrenic journey with a squirrel on crystal meth and the horrid reality of your dead end life will seem immensely inconsequential. That’s a real holiday; why isn’t that on the itinerary of all this mind numbing packaged holiday hoopla? I would be the first in line at that radical travel agency!

Hare fucking Krishna

Siren

London adventure

I have fallen profoundly in love with London, or more specifically Camden Town! A lot happens in a week and since I had at least a bottle of Jesus-juice every day, I can’t recollect every second of my trip. I can however humorously take you on a trip through a London that maxed out my credit card, forces me to hide from my land lord until I can scrape together some dosh and made me fall in love with many a man ludicrously similar to me (narcissism is a fickle lover, surpasses gender and embarrassing likeness)


I stayed in a wonderfully rustic “hotel” called The Camden Lock Hotel right next to a shockingly loud music club called BarFly. It looked exiting, but sadly I never set foot in it. A thing to know about living in Camden lock is that if you ever want to sleep, don’t live there… I however, did not want to sleep and therefore the hotel was perfect for me and my equally insane, drunkard friend Maria.

I did some shopping research for our trip. Research might be pushing it a bit; all I did was browse my fashion guru Susie Bubbles blog: http://www.stylebubble.co.uk/style_bubble/

My hearts desire was met both emotionally and shoppingly by Berty and Gerty Vintage (http://www.bertyandgerty.co.uk/cart.php) where I dribbled over agonisingly beautiful vintage stuff many a time; the second day I came there the preposterously attractive Australian merchant recognised me from the day before. I instantly fell in love with him and therefore blushed, stammered and lost all grasp of the English language in his presence. Still I bought a pair of black gentlemen’s shoes, a huge (fake) fur coal and Native American inspired belt.

I fell in love with many other nameless individuals in Camden Lock. A man with the facial hair of Eugene Hütz, every good-looking Britpop-grunger in tight jeans, a funny little man in a shoe shop and Scar in The Lion King (the musical).

This shop was only a small part of the wondrous universe of the Camden Lock markets where I laid down a Paris Hilton’esq amount of money on jewellery, T-shirts, artwork and general knickknack. I especially love my toy car ring and playmo broche!


We found a day to meander about Oxford Street. We did however not meander; we came up from the underground, found Top Shop to be a divine four floor haven of fashion. As we picked every intriguing garment in the shop, a lovely Top Shop lady came up to us and gave us access to the VIP section dressing rooms with a lounge, personal assistance, no queuing and a check out counter only used by the VIPs. I even overheard an annoying lady taking incessantly about her “friend” Kate (I assume she meant Moss) and about their children and how happy they where that they could now dress their fashionable kids in Top Shop outfits. Deep in the pit of my soul I suspect this lady used the celebrity name to get out of the exasperation of public dressing rooms and endless queues, but all she really needed to do was talk loudly in a foreign language, be about 5’10, slender and look a bit trendy.

One mind-boggling self-esteem enhancing occurrence happened while promenading Camden Lock where a man stopped me on the busy street and told me about this book he was writing about London or people in London and asked if he could take my picture to use in his book. I really had to struggle as not to bulge out in a Singing in the Rain spectacle with this new-found acclaim of my style. “We need a good background” he said charmingly like any ageing photographer/author would. He placed me in the middle of a car-riddled street while reassuring me that he would watch for cars. How one watches for cars while peering through a camera lens I have yet to comprehend, but I survived. The pictures didn’t come out great inasmuch as the evil Njord constantly blew the hair across my face and my pasty skin colouring being exactly as the colour of wall in the background. But I still choose to see it as a testimony to my stylishness even though a very similar outfit only ensued stares and giggles in Norway.

I also have a dating tip for Camden Town (if one enjoys immense amounts of attention): wear a cool hat. It gives people an excuse to strike up a conversation.
And don’t talk to men from York. They seem to massively dislike London and everything foreign, possibly except Scandinavian girls half their age…

We met many an intriguing character while in London. To my despair some of them where French; since my friend speaks French I spent most of the time they where around confused and attention deprived. So I spent my time talking to a flamboyantly gay Brit who must have beet intrigued my mannish apparel that evening seeing as how he came on to me.

I wish I could give you more of a Lonely Planet introduction to Camden Lock, but I cant for the life of me remember the names of the places we shopped and drank at.

BarTok is the Camden bar that has the longest drinking time (3am). Gerty and Berty Vintage and Stables market are by fare the best places to shop, and Oxford Street is the place to shop in the posh shops.


Go to London and love it like I do!

Hare Krishna

Siren