Tuesday, August 26, 2003

"I still say they won't make it to the parish line..."

I'm beginning to think I won't make it to X-mas. I've simply heard all the stories
- yes you want me to work with (read: for) you in your art-project, but you don't have so much money, and...
- yes I understand: you have to leave class early to go to the doctor, dentist, funeral, job interview, beach.
- Yes I will explain everything again now that you have decided to show up at 11.00 AM instead of 8.45
- yes you have some really wild ideas for an interactive website using java-scripting , live video feeds, and 3D, but you are not so technically minded and...
- No I don't mind working overtime because you dropped this disaster on my desk fifteen minutes before I could leave - I don't get paid extra anyway.

I won't make it to X-mas, not this year I'm afraid. But what am I to do? go back to cleaning? maybe working in a kindergarden again, the people there are usually nice. and the kids too. I simply can't make it to X-mas this time.
Uh-huh FASHION...

Short hair is the fashion these days. Problem is most people are also short haired on the INSIDE of their heads.

Sunday, August 24, 2003

No comment.

Very few use the "comments" function and I think that's a bit sad as I'd like some responses...
Why is that?

A: Commenting used to be the "in" thing to do amongst bloggers.
B: But now it's the "out" thing.
C: People stopped reading blogs.
D: People still read blogs but nobody reads THIS blog.
E: People DO read this blog, but nobody cares to comment on it.
F: This blog sucks
G: I suck.
H: Everything sucks.
I: The world has ended and this blog and me is the only thing left of 50.000 years of civilization.
J: The CIA is monitoring this blog and is using specially designed software to stop people from posting comments.
K: I'm paranoid.
L: The CIA is paranoid.
M: The things I write here are so perfect and brilliant that most readers feel it would be superfluous to add a comment.
N: George W. Bush told them they were not allowed to write comments.
O: The KGB told them they were not allowed to write comments.
P: The headmaster at their old school phoned and told them they were not allowed to write comments.
Q: Their moms told them they were not allowed to write comments.
R: Dick Cavett told them they were not allowed to write comments.
S: The people who read this blog are all disabled and their nurses don't know how to operate the "comments" function.
T: The people who read this blog are illiterate and don't know how to write comments.
U: The Chinese have taken over the world and banned the use of Internet; this is the last page on the Internet the special Chinese Internet-Palice hasn't intercepted yet.
V: The USA has sold the Internet to Rupert Murdoch, who has removed commenting in order to cut expenses.
W: The USA has sold the Internet to Disney in exchange for Alien technology.
X: I'm the only one reading this blog.
Y: You're the only one reading this blog.
Z: The headmaster at your old school is the only one reading this blog.
A: Your mom is the only one reading this blog.
Hostess with the mostess.
I bought a movie with Elvira at a flea market - great stuff!
Joke sample:
Elvira is about to be burned at the stakes by a group of very conservative villagers in small-town-USA.
Elvira:"I don't want you to remember me as just someone with a nice set of boobs
- I have great legs too..."
Joke sample-2:
Something drops on her head and a character asks:
"How's your head?"
Elvira: "I haven't had any complaints yet..."

You get the picture.
" There was nothing worse than a reformed drunk and a Born Again Christian..."
Charles Bukowski: Hot Water Music.

You mean like This Guy?

Thursday, August 21, 2003

What should be done, then?..
Yes, I'm talking to you over there in the corner! - Staying out of the conversation, pretending not to listen! - Let’s hear it: WHAT DO YOU THINK!

I think we should erect barracks on a remote field where railway tracks end. Good, solid, well build, railway tracks.

Great Danes.

Danes and the weather is a funny thing:
When it's winter it's so cold and dark and depressing, and long, that most Danes would think: Only thing to do is have some beers and forget about it for a while.
Then comes spring! And because the winter was so long, and dark, and cold and depressing all Danes go crazy with excitement over spring: It's sunny! - Now you can sit outdoors! - No more darkness and depression!
Only thing to do is to have some beers and celebrate the coming of spring!
Then comes summer, and it usually starts out with a lot of rain and not too much sun.
Only thing to do is to have some beers to forget about that lousy Danish summer...
Then we reach July, and suddenly there is a heat wave and this goes on for some weeks: WHEW- WHAT A SCORCHER! Says all the newspapers, and all the Danes - It's actually TOO hot now, not for normal decent people!
Only thing to do is to have some beers to keep you cold and make you forget about that terrible heat...
Then we reach autumn and everybody’s back to work again, and it starts to rain again, and the days are shorter now - and soon it will be winter again (horror of horrors!)
Only thing to do is to find a cosy corner and have some beers to forget about that terrible winter...
And then winter comes, and when it's winter it's so cold and...

Tuesday, August 19, 2003

And all because some other smart salesman made me buy an add in the yellow pages...

I did it again! - I received a call from a business selling a phone answering service
First the nice young lady informed me that she had been calling my business number for several days without being able to reach me (a lie - yesterday my answering machine was turned off by mistake, but not for several days) then she continued explaining how their service worked, a call not answered by me would automatically be redirected to one of their operators who would then inform me about the call. Then came the usual BS: A service she would definitely use herself if she had a business (and with her friendly way of talking she must be your friend, and we all like to do what our friends do, don't we?), the way I was operating now was making me loose costumers (MY GOD!!!) and if I called someone and nobody answered would I not slam down the handle and immediately call another company? (install fear into the prey and it will stop thinking rationally and run for cover = your business proposal)
But I told her I could handle the calls myself
She asked me if this was really true
I said yes
She got sarcastic and said I was really in control there, huh?
I said yes
She laughed (sarcastic again, one bonus point was lost with this customer)
And said goodbye

Kill them - with Love™!!!

(and remember: If you really need to hire people to do the most simple tasks for you, you're never going to survive as a small business - only executives can do that)
Trangsted - just outside of Aarhus, Denmark.

Preben Grundstött left the dinner table to go upstairs to his “cave” – the small room on the first floor where he was allowed to smoke his pipe, make a mess and write the books, articles, critical reviews and essays he had made a living from writing for almost thirty years.
“Where are you going, Preben?” his wife had asked him, not really paying any attention as she was sitting in the corner of their living room fully absorbed in creating some of her award winning ceramics
“I’m going up to the cave to write a critical essay about the U.S.A”, Preben said as he walked up the stairs.
He entered “the cave” and stood in front of his desk for a while untill he blew some smoke from the pipe over the typewriter on the desk. A small ritual to please “The Gods of Writing” as he would explain to visitors. He had used the same electric typewriter - "Selectric II" - since he began writing over thirty years ago. It was a gift from his late parents when he graduated from the university and although everybody he knew had pestered him for years about buying a computer there was no way he was going to do that – they had no soul, and he secretly believed that switching to a computer would destroy his talent for writing immediately – the Gods of Writing were not to be angered.
After the ceremony of blowing smoke came the next ritual: He went over to the record shelves covering most of the right hand wall and carefully chose a record: Charlie Parker, Preben had been a jazz fan since his student years and was proud to mention to visitors that he had actually discussed Charlie Parker with Ben Webster after a concert in the seventies and Webster had said Preben had a fascinating knowledge of the work of Charlie Parker. The LP was placed on the record player – Preben always bought vinyl as he utterly detested the “clinical” sound of the CD – and now he took care of the last ritual: The framed photo of his wife placed on the desktop, right next to the typewriter, was turned around to face the wall and then he could start writing. But what was he going to write? So many thoughts had been stirring in his mind for the last two years…
On September the eleventh - when the planes had hit the World Trade Center - he had provokingly proposed a toast of champagne to the group of friends visiting them while the TV stations showed the incredible pictures of the exploding aeroplanes and collapsing towers. Most of the people gathered refused; feeling it was perhaps too much: “our daughter is studying at Berkeley, what if they attack the west-coast too!” some had explained. Preben had argued that the USA had dropped bombs on defenceless civilians countless times, this was just America reaping what it had sowed, and the Islamic Mujahedeen of today were the sons of the Cuban revolution, the October Revolution and the heroes of Stalingrad, Preben always got a bit excited when he drank - which was rare- and the guests left early much to the dismay of Prebens wife.
After September the eleventh came the War in Afghanistan and now the war in Iraq but Preben had been so busy writing book rewiews, finishing the four children’s books due for publishing next month, and working as a censor at the national film school that he simply hadn’t had the time to gather his thoughts and write something about the way the USA were becoming a neo-imperialist power of the worst kind. But that’s how he felt about it! And he was from a generation that had seen it coming for years, ever since the anti-war demonstrations in the late sixties he had been at the frontline whenever there was the need for an intelligent verbal attack on American imperialism. He remenbered when he met his wife at an anti-Vietnam demonstration and he had swept her off her feet with his strong rhetoric’s and clear argumentation. In fact she had copied every word when she left home the following month and it came to a heated argument with her father who did not want her daughter to run off to the capitol to become a junkie and a communist.
Suddenly the memories came back to him: The demonstrations, the feeling of fighting for a just cause, of being together – a generation who had the vision and the power to change the face of history, to create a new world on the ruins of an old, outdated and corrupt one. And the life they had lived: The rallies, the demonstrations, the parties, the music, the drugs – though Preben had always just pretended to take them as he already then knew that he had an unusual talent with words and didn’t want to risk ruining it. And the women, ah yes the women. When his future wife showed up at his humble one room apartment and told him she had left home to live with him, he was actually a bit disturbed. He was not ready to commit himself to a relationship, and besides: when would they see each other? He was always writing: pamphlets, articles for underground newspapers and – of course: his upcoming exams. He had to have his freedom. But she understood this, she hadn’t left home to become a nice little swat at the university - now life could begin and she wanted it all and she wanted it NOW. So there were other women, always other women. That he looked at. Because in some strange way he never really came closer to them than maybe talking, sometimes in one of the groups at the university, or at the parties. Somehow he remained “true” to his future wife. If he did have sex with another girl, or later women, it was always because his wife had had an “affair” and he felt that he needed to keep some sort of balance in their relationship.
He sat there in front of the typewriter for a while puffing on his pipe, loosing himself in memories of parties, concerts, demonstrations, squatted houses, going to Morocco. Then he stopped. This was going nowhere: He needed inspiration, but he kept thinking about all those things from back then, the parties, concerts and suddenly something began to appear, yes he remembered a girl he had seen at various parties one summer, but then she disappeared and he never saw her since. She always wore a hat of some kind; it was just like Che Guevara’s – a beret. He went over to the window puffing on the pipe, trying to find a starting line for the story he knew he was about to write, one of the really good ones, an inevitable one! He felt the inspiration forming; the words were coming together – now he had it! The perfect opening!
He sat down in front of the typewriter and began typing:

She wore a raspberry beret, the kind that you find in a second hand store.

Sunday, August 17, 2003

Newspaper, cigarettes, packet of crisps – and the big rifle with the night scope, please…

Basically it’s about putting myself back together gain. I’ve spent the last ten years doing it. Ever since my relationship broke up – she wanted a family I wanted to be an artiste
She had a family.
I gave up art.
Then I was in this group of artists, and we had a gallery, and things looked fine we had a good thing going, but then it turns out this guy who’s like the guy who started it and all
is crazy.
But then there’s already exhibitions and you’ve put money into it, and more money, and they start calling from really important museums, and this guy just gets more crazy and he starts dating two girls at the same time, end they go along with it and he sets himself up like some kind of cult leader, and then you realise that in fact he IS a cult leader, and you’re in his cult, and everybody works sixteen hours a day, and it’s his name on all the contracts and leases and whatever and he acts out and he sleeps with two girls at a time and somebody’s girlfriend who’s studying to become a psychiatrist says he’s showing clear symptoms of being a psychopath,
And he is.
And you go along with it. And you betray people, and they betray you, and in the end it's ONLY ambition, and power and greed and betrayal.
And now you know how the world goes round.
Because they all came from fine families.
And you get out of it.
And you suffer from post-traumatic stress
And nobody believes THAT
And you go home to your parents because all your friends gave up on you because you spend too much time with the art-group and told them that this was really it.
And you go home to your parents and you cry a lot and you scare them because they are getting on in years and really don’t know what to say, and you’ve always been a strange kid, so maybe they’ve just run out of love.
And you go back, and you get yourself into more trouble with other people, and there's more embarrassment in front of your parents, because you’ve lost your friends because these new people are REALLY it, but these people like to do drugs.
and the drugs like to do them.
and you end up in a real white-thrash-abusive-looser-nightmare.
And you pull out of that too. And your old dad has to call people, because you can’t, and he’s steel and you love him
But you know. That’s where HE lost faith.
In you.
And you sit down and do NOTHING for three or four months, and you start seeing your friends again, and you start getting it together again, and you finish your education, and you get a job and you’re never going to make art again because you’ve lost faith in humanity, and your never going to love again because you’ve lost faith in that too. And you even start to make art again, and you've even learned, and these people are nice and it's almost coming back to you again but you can't forget. Just can't forget.
And you’re bitter.
And you’re lost
And you’re a sad old git.
And you go to work
And you go home and sit at the kitchen table and wonder where the last ten years of your life went
And you look out the window
Where it’s dark.
But you haven’t packed it in yet.
Because you still want it
Want it
Want it
Want it sooooooooooo much.


Friday, August 15, 2003

Have you tried Funoflex™? - It’s only € 9.95 a hit.

Had my first day at nr.3 job This time I've actually drawn up a plan for the entire sixteen weeks, but of course some students wanted to go off in their own directions, I told them no and they just look at you funny. I can't stand being in the classroom, all the questions, and it's always the same: I'm standing there trying to explain something and because I tell them things flat out like: "yeah, that's a flaw in the software..." they start thinking I don't know what I'm talking about. My problem is not that I don't know what I'm talking about - because I do - the problem is that usually people don't believe me because I seem insecure, and they don't know shit, so how can they know if I'm telling the truth or not? Same thing with my failure to get a drivers license - I can drive a car - but I can't convince them to give me a license. Basically I don't know how other people think and that keeps getting me in trouble because I obviously think in a different way - where's the fun in seeing someone fry in front of a majority? Not my kind of fun, but maybe you learn that from drunken dads barking at the T.V or moms bitching over coffee in the kitchen: since we're going nowhere there's ALWAYS room for some cheap thrills.

Ahoy boats man: Do we still have those firebombs below deck?

Aye Captain! - Six hundred was the last count!

Then set sails for the sub(b)ur(p)s! - Ahs feels like throwing a barbecue!

Monday, August 11, 2003

Crime and punishment.
Had an O.K start at nr.3 job, my boss made fun of the way I pronounced "Photoshop" (that's what I teach at nr.3 job) well..- I've been getting crap from every boss I ever had except two (leaders of leisure clubs for children and disabled people, maybe I should get back in that line of work)

In the immortal words of ICE-T (Copkiller) :

I've got my my headlights TURNED OFF
I've got my shutgun SAWED OFF
And I'm ready to dust a BOSS OFF

He said it about cops, but I'm beginning to think violence really IS the answer if you're the type of person who can't seem to get any respect. Only problem is you go to jail for it, but the power, the feeling, the sight of those dumb assholes shitting their pants before they have their brains blown out - mmh good! and then I'll board my command-tank and head off for the next village with my band of merry prankters - all well-armed, and looking for a GOOD time!
Ahoy boatsman: Hang them high today! I'm entertaining guests...
Aye captain!

(joking, of course - Mondays...)

Saturday, August 09, 2003

"...That's what the Lord did say, upon-a Judgement day..."

I guess one of the things that make Religion appeal to many people is the promise of a "higher justice" - a true justice above the laws of your country, the traditions of your culture etc. This is the justice of God, and this justice is always right: God sees all and he knows it was you who did all the work bringing wealth to your family and not your cousin who just dressed well and had the gift of gab, God saw it was your brother and not you who stole the apples that you got a beating for, etc, etc.
This must be extremely appealing to people living in corrupt and oppressive societies (I'm speaking of the Third World here, of course…) - Because in the end we all die - both the President and the beggar out in the street- and then God will pass judgement and we'll see who makes it to heaven.
If you couple that with a belief in the existence of an afterlife in heaven where all is bliss instead of hard work and agonies - then you've got a pretty strong offering.

Wednesday, August 06, 2003

I forgot to remember to forget and then remember again when the holidays ended.

A nice day today: I was awakened 8 am by a young female artist from my job nr.1 - this place is a video and computer workshop for artists started five years ago by the majority of my fellow classmates from the Art-academy (including my professor) - I wasn't invited back then, by the way.
She had some questions regarding some new software, I agreed to stop by before I went to my NR.2 job (pun very much intended) She called back ten minutes later to inform me that she had solved the problem herself (she must have glanced through the manual, good girl - try that next time before you wake people up) As my internet at home wasn't working I sat and relaxed for a couple of hours - no sense in going back to sleep. I then bicycled through the charming Copenhagen traffic (nobody pays attention to what other people are doing as long as they are themselves not violating any red traffic lights or are doing something they themselves feel is o.k. and not dangerous at all) When I arrived at NR.2 job (pun there, again) - The Royal Danish Art academy of bla, bla, bla, I was greeted by representatives of the special breed of White-thrash assholes that always manage to find employment as Wardens, janitors or what ever job that may suit a person with seven years of schooling. While sharing an elevator with these humble workfolk I not only had the pleasure of their sweaty odour but also enjoyed their humorous comments on the red colour of my skin- a result of spending too much time in the sun yesterday. Attempts from me at going along with the joviality were instantly thwarted and it was clear that the special hierarchy installed in the feeble minds of these two voters and fully paid up members of the welfare state did not include friendliness towards: former-students-who-now-make-money-just-sitting-on-their-arses-doing-nothing-with-those-computers-while-we-do-all-the-real-work.
As I stepped off at the fourth floor I could immediately start picking up the cigarette butts and empty beer-bottles left behind by the students, while I put the various cables back into the expensive video and computer equipment, of course removed by students who - in spite of a general lack of technical abilities - have no fear what so ever of trying out new interesting combinations between cable, port and computer (and if things don't quite fit, there' s nothing like getting a few frustrations worked out by MAKING them fit) After these routines I began helping the few student not spending this warm and sunny day getting high at Christiania or at the beach. Mainly this means explaining things like how to attach files to e-mails, and this to people who have been coming to the computer laboratory I operate for three or four years without fully grasping this intricate and complicated operation. While doing that, I quietly reminded myself to pick up a shotgun on my way home so I could blow my head off after dinner.

Tomorrow I go to have my first day after the holidays at my NR.3 job…

Friday, August 01, 2003

Sit down and relax Ahmad, it's over for today.
Sit on the bench in your cheap clothes and your cheap shoulder bag you bought at the gas station
Relax, from your low-end job that nobody else wanted
Sit down with your un cool overweight body and wait for the same public transport you work for.
Go home and shout at your considerably oppressed and overweight wife who doesn’t speak Danish so well (probably due to oppression and overweight)
She can still get a job cleaning up after people who do (despite the fact that her culture keeps her generally oppressed and overweight)
, Shout at the television, shout at your kids, pull their ears, damn the neighbours, damn the government, damn your entire family and the television. Repair the clogged toilet on Sundays and damn the janitor, and shout at your kids some more and make them laugh by squirting water on them.
Put you kids through school and give them a better life,
Not stupid immigrants like you but like the real Danes.
Zombies with money, money, money makes the world go round in a loop
Not like you, stupid, fat, ignorant, un cool and Human™
And when you die they will have to fly your body back to Pakistan, because we can’t have that sort of thing lying around in the ground

and the band played on (in their usual 1920’s style)

We need the spaaaaaaaaace
for chemical waaaaaaaaaste
It ads some taaaaaaaaaaaste
To the hellhole we build
(bam- bom)