Bistreem, P.I.

Today, I got to play detective. Yes, I donned my best trench-coat, gulped down a couple of shots of whiskey, lit up a cigarette and - following the half hour of intense and painful coughing and nausea due to me not being a smoker - hit the dark, rainy streets of Oslo to embark on my crusade against evil in the brutal world of musical instrument retail; to thwart the plans of evildoers, rescue damsels in distress and fire off a seemingly endless line of witty one-liners. Action! Thrills! Mystery! Dames! All this and more in this edition of Daring Tales of Musical Detectives (only $0.59)!

Ok, so all that was blown slightly out of proportion there, but I DID get to help thwart (oh, how I love that word... thwart!) an attempted fraud. Which is good enough for me, really - all the excitement of detective work while safely seated in your office chair.

Anyway, this morning at work I got a call from KLM - the airline company - regarding an insurance claim from one of their customers. This fellow (I will refrain from mentioning nationality, seeing as that part of the world is getting enough bad press as it is) was demanding reimbursement for damages his instruments had suffered during a trip with KLM, and had produced a paper of certification of inspection of these damages by a retailer/workshop here in Oslo. However, the store that he claimed had written this paper had our name, but a different store's address, no VAT number and no phone number, and thus Maria - the Danish customer care person handling the case, who was trying to solve this from her office in Amsterdam and having a great deal of trouble doing so (thus qualifying for the damsel in distress part, I suppose) - had found our website and phone number, and called to ask if we had written this paper.

Since we occasionally do write these papers for customers, I had her fax me the papers she had gotten from the customer so that I could look into it. I must say, the scam artists of today do put a lot of work in their... paperwork. The papers themselves looked pretty good (complete with dates, names and signatures, it was even stamped) until inspected a bit more closely, revealing a less then stellar grasp of written English (even by Norwegian standards), and a non-existing company name (as mentioned earlier, it had our company name, but the address of another store).

I thought I'd give the guy the benefit of the doubt, so I gave the other store a call - knowing they do repairs for these kinds of instruments - to check if they'd had a look at the instruments mentioned and written the document for the guy. Indeed he HAD visited their workshop to get such a paper documenting the extent of damages to his instruments, but he hadn't actually brought any instruments to the store, and they had refused to write such a paper without actually SEEING the instruments first. Basically they'd sent him off to another store, and not given it any more thought until today. They weren't too happy to hear about this incident, and since one of their employees was one of the three people mentioned in the paper and who had allegedly signed it (name and signature was there), I faxed them a copy of the papers as well. Document fraud is punishable by law in Norway just as in most other countries, so they would look into pressing charges - even if the chances of locating this individual (he was not registered at the home address given - yeah, I checked the phone book) are less than very, very slim.

I called Maria back to let her know about my "investigations", gave her the other store's phone- and fax numbers and told her that we all thought this sounded like a big, fat fraud. She was extremely grateful for the help and even asked if there was ANYTHING she could do in return - being the gentleman that I am (*cough*), I told her it was my pleasure and also in our interest to stop frauds like these from happening.

Of course, in retrospect I kinda regret not asking for a discount on my next flight (my girlfriend's family lives outside of Norway and we travel with KLM when we go to visit them), but then I again, a hero never asks for payment, right?

I'm planning on going to work with a big red "B" on my chest tomorrow...

Wax on, wax off

(Disclaimer: this is another one of those blog entries of a slightly gross nature. Much like the snot one. Only this isn't about snot. Anyway, if you're easily offended by the weirdness - not to mention grossness - of the human body, you'd better take heed and go read something else. Like the latest Apple keynote. Oh, and I couldn't find any photos to go with this entry that weren't utterly gross, so they're omitted. Sue me.)

I love my ears. Being a music lover, wannabe electronic musician and occasional audio engineer, my ears have given me - and continue to give me - daily joy and entertainment throughout the years. Given the choice between blindness and deafness, I'd lose the eyes. Especially if there was a chance for some cybernetic implant to grant me night vision and Predator-style thermal vision. And possibly laser-beams. But I digress.

Anyway, my ears - as much as I love them and take care of them - also cause me grief. See, my ears have crazy earwax build-up. Yeah, earwax. Sticky, yellow goop clogs my ears completely once in a while - it's happened three times in the last ten years - resulting in temporarily partial or complete loss of hearing on one or both of my ears. Scared the crap out of me the first time, now I take it like a man (curling up in a fetal position and sobbing uncontrollably, then). Tuesday it happened again; most likely triggered by a long day of headphone use in a pretty warm apartment. Woke up with my right ear completely clogged and spent most of my working day with a sore neck from constantly turning my left side to anyone talking to me.

So, yesterday I headed down to the private clinic I use for small, everyday emergencies like this. The doctor placed me in the usual chair and fired up his earwax removal machine: a big tank-like thing with hoses and cables connected to it. While seated there and having my ears vacuumed - that's what it feels like, really - I was looking at the tubes going to and from the machine. I'm guessing there was one for air, one for water and one for the actual wax - boy, there was a lot of the yellow stuff going through that one.

I still wonder where it all goes; is there a black market for second-hand earwax? Can it be found in cosmetics, food or silly putty if you can decipher the contents listings? Or was my doctor secretly collecting enough to create his own earwax Golem to wreck havoc on humanity in general and the makers of cotton sticks in particular..? Perhaps he'd bring home a box of it and make tiny, elaborate figurines to be displayed in a glass cabinet? Make candles? All these things rushed through my head as my ear-canals slowly regained their functionality. After what sounded like a medium-sized waterfall rushing out of my ears, the audible world came back to me in glorious stereo and with a slightly improved high-frequency response; I spent most of yesterday being annoyed by the sound of my clothes shuffling.

Oh yeah, and to the possible smartasses among you that go "Why don't you use cotton sticks?!" - it's not good for ya: never put something sharper than your elbow in your ear. Go look it up, kids.

Bruce Is The Man

Proof positively, Bruce Campbell IS The Man...

Neighbors schmeibors! Fog Schmog!

It's January, it's winter (or whatever one would call it these days - it's certainly not of the snowy, white variety as popularized by the Coke commercials) and it's Monday; in other words, the perfect setting for a rant or two.

Rant subject #1: Neighbors.

Generally, I get on pretty well with my neighbors. As in, I don't bother them and they mostly don't bother me. Much. Apart from that guy that sings in the shower - loudly and horribly out of tune - and whose voice magically transfers very well to MY bathroom through our shared ventilation shaft. Then, there are the folks living in the apartment above me, that seem to do a lot of furniture rearranging. After midnight. On Tuesdays. Why after midnight? Why Tuesdays? I fear these are questions I'll never know the answers to (I'll put them up on my long list of unanswered questions, like where do all my left socks, pencils and guitar picks go when they suddenly disappear).
Lastly, there's the mystery woman living in the apartment next to mine; this morning, as I picked up my newspaper, I tripped in her slalom gear that was haphazardly placed against her door - it was there last night as well. Who leaves their slalom gear outside their door for more than a day? Is it some secret getaway solution - can I expect my neighbor to one day escape some unknown fiend by sliding down the stairway in a Bond-like fashion? Although it's not completely improbable that she's some kind of secret agent - I have, after all, only met her twice since I moved here - I do doubt the efficiency of escaping potential thugs by sliding down a concrete stairway on slalom skis. The Bond Aficianados might beg to differ.

Rant subject #2: Weather.

More specifically, fog. I have a serious problem with fog. Not as FOG, but as weather. I mean, rain, wind and snow all have some sort of purpose; we need water for our lawns, wind for our para-gliders and snow for our Christmas clichés, but what the heck is fog good for? FOG - huh - what is it good for? Absolutely nothing! Say it again. Fog is not weather; it's a horror B-movie prop. Whenever there's fog outside, I half expect to see Bela Lugosi pop out and go "Chiiildren of the niiight" or something along those lines.
Fog isn't weather; it's colorized (gray) rain without the proper h2o percentage. What do we need it for? I'm pretty sure fog is one big elaborate joke staged by some top secret meteorologists' society just to annoy us. I bet part of those huge electricity bills (this is Norway, after all - it's not like we have abundances of water or anything) go to pay for a big-ass smoke machine somewhere in the hills. Seriously, this morning it was dark AND foggy. Yes. This is Norway; during winter, mornings are pitch black ANYWAY. What does the fog add to pitch black? Nothing but atmosphere. And I don't need no frickin' atmosphere with my pitch blackness, thank you very much - I can be grumpy on Monday mornings without atmosphere. Fog, I've officially taken you off the weather list. So there.

(See, this is what you get when I submit to peer pressure and blog without having anything to say; rants. You asked for it!)

The State of Things

Three things have happened since my last blog entry. Well, two things and an epiphany. Which I guess is of equal or even larger value than a thing. It might even count for a thing and-a-half, or perhaps two small-to-medium sized things. Why we don't learn how to solve fundamental everyday dilemmas like these at school is a mystery to me: then again, many things are mysteries to me and maths are certainly not among my strongest talents (of which I have remarkably few). Where was I? Oh, yes: the things. And one epiphany.

Thing one: Replacements for my favorite rubber-based contraceptives arrived in my mailbox last Friday, along with a small, handwritten note from the supplier - no mention of my long-winded (but hopefully humorous) e-mail, just a few words along the lines of "We're sorry the postman nicked yer rubbers, here are some new ones." Which is perfectly acceptable to me. Be nice to the costumer support department, and chances are they just might return the favor.

Thing two: My annual December cold arrived a little early this year, for the last week it's been annoyingly present without incapacitating me. I even somewhat gracefully participated in this weekend's bowling/tapas/"Casino Royale"-combo with my girlfriend and friends M & G. The verdict: Daniel Craig makes for a pretty darn good Bond, tapas make for some pretty darn good grub and my bowling skills make for some pretty darn good entertainment (for all the wrong reasons).

Today - on my day off - I'm at home tending to the last remnants of my cold and feeling slightly sorry for myself among the heaps of used Kleenex and crap mid-day TV. Which brings me to my epiphany: Snot.

Why on earth are we spending precious time and money developing alternative sources of energy, when the power of snot is just waiting to be harnessed? It's readily available - most humans seem to be producing an almost endless amount of it during the Winter season - and completely biodegradable! Surely, an average Norwegian 4-year old could easily power a small apartment building alone, and all those kinder gardens out there are potential power-plants of unfathomable power! Ok, so there are certain bio-hazard issues to solve, and of course trying to figure out how to actually extract energy from runny, bacteria-infected goop, but think of the possibilities.

Sure, it's gross, but it still beats thermonuclear meltdowns and fossil-based energy: if a snot-tanker crashes somewhere, the only thing we'll have to worry about is a large amount of seagulls with the sniffles.

I am legend!

Right, so I haven't done a blog entry in ages, I have a nasty cold, work today has been a total killer and the weather is... well, it is.

Still, two things got me through the day:

1) I am a legend. Well, a Røde legend to be exact. Most of you don't know what that means, and that's quite okay. For me, it means I've been given some cool, free stuff - pretty cool stuff, to be honest. Which will in no way affect my objectivity in my work, mind you: I'll still let you know what's crap and what's not whenever you buy something from me. Promise!


2) It's Friday. Which is my favorite day of the week, for at least one reason that I won't mention here. It's a good reason, though. Maybe even the best. Quite possibly the best. Yeah, let's use that one. Now, get the heck outta here.

Milkman? Worry about the mailman instead

(Warning: the following entry contains at least two things that may shock the casual reader of my blog - 1. the words "condoms" and "sexual" are in it. 2. which imply that I actually have a love life and am not the lonely geek I may appear to be. A sense of humor is thusly required.)

"To whom it may concern,

Today I received in my mailbox a shipment from you (order no. XXXXXX) that was supposed to contain 1 piece of Brand C 30-pack of condoms and 1 piece of Brand P 30-pack of condoms: unfortunately, the sealed paper bag containing these items had been ripped open, and only contained 2 pcs. of Brand C 10-pack of condoms. I find two possible reasons for this:

1) The paper bag has been laying beneath some very heavy papers/letters (electricity or dentist bills, most likely) inside the mailman's bag and was torn open as the mailman transfered the package from his bag to my mailbox. In that case, a somewhat surprised - and hopefully lucky - mailman will find 40 pcs. of high-quality condoms in the bottom of his bag by the end of his shift, and will use these in the best possible fashion.

2) A less than honorable employee with our highly competent Postal Service has - metaphorically as well as literally - secured himself for a good few days to come. The way the bag was torn (very neatly) implies that this is the most likely alternative. The fact that this person consider my condoms a far more valuable contraband than the huge amount of DVDs and CDs that regularly pop into my mailbox tells - I'm sorry to say - far more about him than me.

I am of course aware of the fact that your company can neither be blamed for huge electricity bills nor thieving postal workers, and I fully understand that it would be easy to brand me as a cheeky (but eloquent) con artist - I mean, I COULD have torn open the bag myself when I got home from work this evening and promptly engaged in a sexual marathon of truly epic proportions that would have decimated the number of condoms at an alarming rate - but I consider myself a loyal and honest customer and was hoping that you could help me out of this somewhat racy predicament. Photographic evidence of the state of the paper bag and its contents can be produced if necessary.

Regards,
Bitstreem (bewildered and contraception-impoverished customer) "

(This is a translation of the actual e-mail I sent to the online store where I get my condoms - hopefully the customer support department will have a sense of humor compatible with mine.)

Top 7 signs you're no longer a single geek

(Tongue firmly in cheek and all that. All references to actual, living people are purely coincidental and should be taken with a huge grain of salt. Oh, and I'm more than happy to have my newfound love disrupt my geeky routines and rituals, thankyouverymuch.)

Not too long ago, my status as a single geek changed into that of a geek-in-a-relationship. This has brought about certain changes in my life and lifestyle (or lack of such), and I'm happy to say they are mostly for the better (of course, I say this because there's a good chance my girlfriend will be reading this blog). I thought perhaps a short summary of these changes may be of value to other geeks (of one persuasion or the other) in a relationship or about to enter one.

So, here they are, the top 7 tell-tale signs you're no longer a single geek:

1. Your otherwise spotless order history of quality music and cult/action/horror-movies with your favorite web-shop (*cough*Play*cough*) suddenly becomes tainted with Top 20 CDs and chick-flicks.

2. You find yourself - somewhat reluctantly - actually enjoying said Top 20 CDs and chick-flicks to some extent. I repeat: to SOME extent.

3. "Going shopping" no longer means checking out the nearest Apple Store or scavenging for cheap X-Men comics.

4. There are at least 10 new cosmetics products in your bathroom that you cannot identify - and most of their content cannot be found in the periodic table.

5. Two words: "Couple dinners". 'Nuff said!

6. No more careless tossing about of pop-cultural references: if you say something in Klingon, Elvish or Wookie, be prepared to explain it. Thoroughly. In a language spoken on Earth.

7. With the above point fresh in mind: Yes, most sci-fi and fantasy will lose some of its initial attraction once properly explained (read: dissected), scrutinized and lovingly ridiculed.

8. "Playing games" no longer means hooking up your Playstation or dusting off your Star Wars action figures... Which is quite an improvement, really. No further elaboration required or granted.

There you have it, fellow geeks: it's not so bad as it may seem. Life is change, and not all change is for the worse - even if it means a bit less obsessive re-watching of Firefly episodes.

PS! I don't really speak Klingon, Elvish or Wookie - well.

Safecracking 101

You know, sometimes growing up - yes, it's a seemingly never-ending process for me, I admit - is just a long line of crushed illusions and broken dreams: Finding out why your Dad and Santa was never in the same room at the same time, catching your Mum in the act of "planting" the Easter Bunny's eggs, discovering the whole Tooth Fairy scam - I could go on forever.

Granted, as time goes by and cynicism - that's adulthood for you an me - slowly seeps in, the disappointments do seem to come a little further apart and the shock of finding that your head actually won't explode if you hold back a sneeze is a little more easy to bear. Hey, stay with me, there's actually a point to this whole long-winded story and it's coming up any time now!

So, today another of my childhood (and adulthood, for that matter) illusions went bust. Yay. The other day the lock of our safe (where we keep all of our booty, aaarrrr) here at work went all ballistic and wouldn't open, much to our dismay. Locked out of our own safe, we had to call in a locksmith (no, they're not found under "safe-crackers" in the yellow pages) to open the damn thing for us. Now, having never seen a locksmith in action, I was a bit excited as the guy appeared with his bag of tools: I immediately pictured him in silent concentration in front of the safe, stethoscope in place, carefully turning the dial listening for that gratifying "click".


Can you imagine my disappointment when the guy opens his bag, and pulls out a big-ass electric drill?! Dude, what the hell? Where's the finesse? The sophistication? The elegance? Why didn't TV tell me that opening a safe requires a dozen large power-tools, brute force and most of all a bloody great deal of time?! Yeah, the guy went at the steel mammoth for a good three hours with his assortment of power-tools before the thing opened up.


I'm so depressed now.

Product Conundrum

Wrap your head around this, dear readers:

A couple of years ago, one distributor - let's call him A4 - drops by the store to tell us about this wonderful now product - let's call it product P - that he's selling. Product P, he tells us, is made by people that used to work for another and vastly inferior brand that makes product S. Now, product S is made in China just like product P, but product P is the object of a whole lot more love, care and quality control than that generic, made-for-the-money product S. Ok, we say, we'll give product P a chance. You can never have too many affordable thingamajigs in your store, anyway. We already have a few product S's in the store, so it'll be fun to see if product P sells better, we say.

So, time passes, and we sell very little of product P. We try it ourselves, and it's certainly not bad - however, the same can be said about product S, really. We don't think about it too much, and go back to selling product R which everyone likes (both us and the customers) and we sell heaps of.

A month ago, distributor A4 sends out his regular, longwinded and bloated information e-mail about new products and such and guess what: he's dropping product P. It didn't sell as good as expected, and they want to focus on a new, and much better brand. Can you guess which one? Ah, yes: product S, of course. Yes, product S is now elevated to the status of product made with a whole lot of love, care and quality control, while product P - which was previously in this glorified position - is now thrown down in the dirt.

And people wonder why product PR (in all forms) make me giggle. Teehee.

Oh, and anyone who can figure out which products and which distributor I'm talking about will get the wonderful prize of absolutely nothing. Which, coincidentally, is roughly equal to the substance and integrity of said distributor's sales pitches. *giggle*

An ode to the laundry room

Oh, laundry room:

Where the good inhabitants of your apartment building meet to socialize and engage in friendly banter; where strangers' eyes meet in brief moments of forbidden desire or unabashed disgust; where the intelligentsia gather to plot their next reality-altering scheme (such as keeping the laundry closed on Sundays and thus making sure nobody can do their laundry on the only day they have the time to do so); where the janitor's notice board is constantly covered in a glorious mix of complaints, questions and nonsensical, semi-poetic dabblings.

Where quiet battles are fought over who booked the dryer first or stole someone's bleach;
where little old ladies will gently persuade you into letting them have the washing machine for
another 30 minutes (and nobody says no because it would be like saying no to your own
grandmother), thereby nudging the already rickety booking schedule into a magnificent
collapse; where socks disappear into thin air, only to manifest themselves four months later
in a tattered, washed out state after having been stuck in the dark realms of the leftmost
washing machine where not even the keenest of eyes could see them, or strongest of hands pry them free from their ever-rotating iron cell; where the principle of "love thy neighbour" is put to the test every day as you find your clothes strewn all over the usually less then squeaky clean laundry room floor.

Where creatures big and small - of both the human and non-human kind - roam freely among the comforting warmth emitted from the large electrical mammoths that leave our laundry in a state of variable decontamination; where the strong, concrete walls block all cell phone reception and leave you blissful isolation from the brouhaha of the outside world (and prevents your mum calling you and nagging about that thing you were supposed to pick up somewhere).

Oh, laundry room - my life revolves around thy existence and thy etheric booking system!
Oh, laundry room - may thy electricity never be absent, thus leaving my clothes wet and full of detergent!


(I really, really need to get my own washing machine.)

Unwords!

(Disclaimer: This blog entry is mainly composed of things copy-pasted from Unwords.com. I know some people frown upon this kind of creative laziness, but it's Friday - sue me!)

I love words. Big ones, small ones, strange ones, funny ones - they're all friends to me! Now, sometimes words evolve (or degenerate, depending on your point of view) into new words and then they end up on Unwords.com - a super-duper site for new breeds of words! I've taken the liberty to list a few of the entries here, to whet your appetite for more...

Destinasia - a. (n.) Going upstairs or downstairs and being unable to remember why.

Disconfect - a. (v.) To sterilize the piece of candy you dropped on the floor by blowing on it, somehow assuming this will "remove" all the germs.

Docuphobia - a. (n.) The fear of using documentation, usually resulting from some previous traumatic event such as programming a VCR.

Drylowgraph - a. (n.) Any strange, unintelligible symbol that accompanies the washing instructions on clothing labels

Malbingophobia - a. (n.) The fear among some bingo players that they have incorrectly marked a square, and calling "bingo" could cause them not victory, but public humiliation.

Meandrathal - a. (n.) Any person in an exhausted state of mind in which they wander aimlessly, sometimes with low blood-sugar, in a shopping mall, video store or the like.

More words at Unwords.com - go there now!

A waste of space

Two minutes ago, I realized that none of my MSN contacts where online and I felt a sting of loneliness and abandon - like being locked out of the playground, or not chosen for the "cool" team for the soccer match.

Then, I realized that realizing this was all rather sad - borderline pathetic, some might say - and filled my cup with coffee and started writing this blog entry.

Alas, while writing this I realized that spending time, energy and precious blog-space on this specific theme was indeed a bit sad aswell, and most likely a good indication of my current state of blogger's writer's block. So I'll stop, right here.

Too late now, anyway.

Meh.

A blogger's lament

Dear readers of late,
I bring saddening news:
My blog's in a state
of writer's block blues!

So this Blogger entry
(though rhyming quite well)
is quite elementary,
as I'm sure you can tell.

It's not so by choice,
or fate, if you will:
For uttering my voice
is usually a thrill.

It's not that I'm lazy,
or tired or sad,
it's not that I'm crazy
(or ate something bad).

The reason my site
is lackluster and dull,
and lacking in bite
when it should have been full:

The reason is this
(and I hate to admit) -
I have nothing to say,
and thus nothing to submit.
----------------------------------
(Ok, so that last line
didn't rhyme all that well:
I don't always refine,
but at least I can spell!)

OMGWTF?! - DeLighTable

There are coffee-tables, and then... there are COFFEE-TABLES. The DeLighTable from Kloss is one bad-ass table. Woah. Me want. Badly!

Master of the Toast

I'm basically a slightly reserved, if not shy, guy. I prefer the safety of a shadowy background to the bright spotlights of centre stage. I don't crave attention.

In spite of this, I have a remarkable talent for ending up in situations that require me to drop a few of my inhibitions and act as if I enjoy being in the spotlight: My day job require me to talk to strangers every day, I've played live music for small crowds a few times, I've given some presentations and speeches and now I have one more thing to add to my growing list of things I've sworn I'd never do: being toastmaster in a wedding.

Yes, my good friend Mikael was married to his Grete this Saturday, and by chance (or Mikael's remarkable negotiation skills) I had ended up as the toastmaster for the event.Woah. Seeing as neither me nor Mikael (I'll refer to him as M from now on) had a particularily good idea about what this whole toastmastering business was all about, M figured it'd be an easy job ("Just announce the menu and the speakers... oh, and stay sober.") and I figured he was right ("How hard can it be?"). So, with this settled, I left for my Summer holidays and M went about his business reassured that he'd chosen the right guy for the job. Ahem.

A week before the wedding, I get the first call from M's mom. Ok, so there are a couple of more minor tasks that I have to see to during my forthcoming toastmaster gig. I take notes, and she says she'll send me a short list of suggestions and questions on e-mail a little later. Now, keep in mind that the job description as written by M was about three lines - M's mother's list was about two pages. Oy vey! At this point, I felt the need to do a little research on this whole toastmaster thing, and stopped by a few wedding-themed websites to get some ideas. Bad move. The first site described the toastmaster as the guy with the responsibility for the wedding dinner. All of it! I was starting to feel a little clammy. A second website described him as a cross between a stand-up comedian, presenter and maitre d' - now, a flicker of panic embraced me for a short time.

So, what to do? Analyze. Sort. Arrange. Prepare. These words are my personal mantra whenever I'm thrown into situations like these - and as I said earlier, I tend to get thrown into them wether I like it or not. Being a methodical geek, I prodded M's mom with questions so I could see what I was heading into. A small family wedding, about 55 guests, mostly people I've never met. Right. I made a list of all my tasks and then a rough schedule for the night that I sent to M's mom. I prepared a few anectodotes, and some light-hearted introductions to myself and a couple of the speekers (that I knew). The schedule was revised a couple of times (new speekers, songs etc.) but we ended up with a nice, structured plan for the day that would be of great help to both me, the kitchen and M's mom.

How did it all go in the end? Pretty good, actually. We were on a tight schedule, so my plan was constantly changing during the day, but all speakers gave their speeches, many a song was sung, and a tired but happy toastmaster could treat himself to some coffee and cognac at about nine o'clock in the evening.

Would I do it again? Well, I can say "no" but like I said: I seem to have a talent for ending up in these situations...

Assorted goodies

Ok, ok, so I am resorting to stea... uhm... borrowing nice links from good sites like Ektopia, I-am-bored and other worthwhile places these days - hey, I haven't got the time to write witty blog entries ALL the time, ok? OK? Right.

Let's start with todays musical curiosity: Twink makes sickly cute (but oh-so-great) toy-like music, and their remix of NIN's "The hand that feeds" sounds like a cross between a sugar-coated Goblin and... well... NIN, really. Check it out here: Twink vs. NIN - have a peek at their MySpace page too, while you're at it.

"City Paradise" is a nice piece of audio/visual art by Gaelle Denis - atmospheric and whimsical.

Finally, some game-music nostalgia as performed by the Video Games Live Orchestra:

Eye Candy!

Feast yer eyes on this gorgeous piece of animation courtesy of MTV Asia and Ben Hibon:





..could someone turn this into a series, please?

Kraftwerk live in Oslo, August 8th 2006!

At last: yesterday I FINALLY got the chance to see the band that without doubt is THE most influential electronic act throughout the times: KRAFTWERK! Yeah, baby! Ralf and Florian did their thing with Fritz and Henning solidly filling the roles of Wolfgang and Karl (or was it the other way around?). The four old Germans rocked the house - well, shoegazed the house - for a good two hours, running through classic after classic: Man Machine, Computer Love, Radioactivty, Autobahn, Tour De France - they were all there.

Of course, when "The Robots" was finally performed near the end of the concert, the now famous remote-controlled robotic Kraftwerk-lookalikes replaced the quartet to much (and well deserved) applause and cheering from the audience. Speaking of which, the audience was a fascinating mix of young and old, neatly dressed 40-year olds and red-shirt-and-black-tie wearing 30 somethings, goths, rockers and synth-freaks, and the ever present "Look at me, I've got no musical taste, but I go see every major band that plays in this town just so I can wear their official tour T-shirt and tell all my friends I've seen them live!" bunch. Ahem. Nothing personal against you guys, but seriously: an R.E.M tour T-shirt at a Kraftwerk concert? Puhlease...

All in all, this was a great experience: Great sound, great visuals, a sweaty but very enthusiastic audience (I was practically dripping with sweat by the end: Sentrum Scene is HOT during Summer gigs) and the chance (perhaps my only) to see some truly monumental artists within my musical genre of preference. I was grinning like a fool during the whole show, and let me tell you: these days, there are only two things that put a grin like that on my face, and Kraftwerk live is one of them. The other... isn't. ;)

Space

(Disclaimer: if my somewhat overactive brain has somehow nicked any central themes or ideas here from your favourite song/movie/book - then I assure you it's purely coincidental and all in your mind. Really)

Space is a strange thing. No, not that big, unfathomable darkness in which our tiny speck of a planet is hanging, but space as in that somewhat smaller area that's surrounding us at any given time. Space breathes, it expands, collapses, twists and warps and can turn from a comfort zone to a cage in a fraction of a second. It can be a massive field of freedom or a suffocating void of emptiness. Space - or lack of it - is what makes a room seem crowded even when occupied by just two people, or a crowded room seem enormous and empty - apart from that person whose space you share at the moment.

Space has voids: not the mind-bogglingly huge ones, but the small, people-sized ones. Ever noticed that special emptiness left behind by someone close or special to you? It's not the same space that was there before, but a space without meaning, without substance. Space without substance may seem like a ridiculous idea, but I suspect some of you know the feeling (or a similar one, although differently phrased): like the face of a loved one suddenly missing from a family photo, the image incomplete – something is missing.

Why this sudden obsession with space, I hear you ask. Well, my space (not MySpace) has been invaded. It was not a hostile invasion, but a quiet, comfortable one. I made some feeble attempts at resistance, but this space-invader (pun intended) was a cunning and stealthy opponent and I was outsmarted, out-gunned – my line of defense broken and left crumbling in the hands of the invader. Slowly, the space in which I've been residing started growing, its outer perimeters harder to monitor and the invader found a way in – and my space will never be the same again. For now, this invader's space and mine seem to have formed a symbiotic relationship – each person's space leaving a vacuum in the other one's when that person is not around.

My space is no longer empty. :)