Being sunk and other gossip.

Holy Diver! The weeks are flying by like bats leaving their carefully filtered guano droppings to fill the pages of my little insignificant blog. A lot has happened in these last months, not all fun but mostly. About three weeks ago I got to see what the back seat of a cop car looks like. With my hands on the grill window that separated me from the deputy in the front seat I stared at the strategically placed shotgun next to him thinking "Well, I had a good run". Moving around in the wealthier parts of this metropolis can be a risky business, especially if you have what the clean shaven refer to as a suspicious appearance. Apparently I do. I was reparking my extremely beat up rent-a-wreck car - It looks like R2D2's retarded mother - in West Hollywood. I got out to check the parking sign to see if I could actually leave it there, when a vehicle from the jolly old sheriffs department suddenly u-turned and zeroed in on me. "Put your hands on the hood for me, sir. Spread your legs, please". I gestured accordingly. Then one officer uttered a sentence that scared the ghost of Montezuma out of me. He looked at the other officer and muttered "Want me to sink him"?

Wait a minute! Sink him? Sink him!! Are they gonna shoot me? Make me lie face down on the ground? T-bag me? Thankfully my understanding of the blue lingo was faulty. Sink him means put him in the back of the car. They couldn't just say that however. Instead - Sink him. Such a neutral, non-threatening, not to mention catchy expression has apparently proven to be the proper terminology when dealing with pedestrians. SINK HIM!

A cop car doesn't smell, and believe me my senses were fully alert sitting back there while a fat rookie ran my license number through the machine. The leather seats were hard but comfy enough. "We're pulling over anyone who looks suspicious, there's been a lot of car burglaries in this area". Yes sir, thank you, sir. Amazing how the mind works when it gets into worst case scenario mode. For a moment I was thinking they might get me for the time I ate worms in kindergarten. I do have a clean record thank Judas, and I was out of there in less than five minutes, returning to my scene partners house with a zombie-like complexion.

Beat

On the performance side of things it's been looking up for ol' Wisty. I did a play in Santa Monica College directed by Kamil Haque, a scene based on two Hemingway short stories. I realized that I'd never done drama in front of an audience. A strange experience and it felt fucken sweet not having to gun for laughs. Kamil was happy and we celebrated by going to Santee Alley together and I bought some bomb ass shades that I managed to lose later that night. Me and Tommy was there the week before looking for the appropriate fabric for a Yeti costume. I am proud to say that I have haggled on Yeti fur. Tommy equals fun. I don't know what I'll do without him.

I got my first paying gig later that week when two strange French men contacted me to do a voice over. Long story short, I am now the voice of a 50-year old handsome Californian in a romantic film set in Malibu/France. Apparently the original actor ran away after finishing his scenes (maybe he saw the footage. BURN!!). Time for Dildo Haggis to step in and do the dirty work. The French boys had no filming permits so we had to sneak past the lobby of a snappy apartment complex in the Valley, we hid in the corner and I pulled out my deepest tongue and injected it into the boom mic. The script was worded in the way that only a French script would be allowed to be. Insane philosophical declarations of love. The director threw his inspirational fit in his stereotypical French-English accent and the camera man winked at me an whispered "Just ham it up". And so I did. 200 smackers for 20 minutes of work. Gotta love it. That munny's going into my NYC budget - I'll be stopping by Martin in Brooklyn and Velaug on the Upper East Side. Having never been to the Big Apple I'm ready as ready can be to suck in the atmosphere. I'm not sure what we'll be doing over there but I have to stop by The Jonathan Levine Gallery, which was one of many things I set out to do when I left for the states. There's apparently a ticket booth on Times Square that sells'em cheap the day of, I gotta get my hands on something Arthur Miller or Tennessee Williams. The lack of big theater productions in LA has left me hungry for the real thing.

Since summer has reared it's pretty face Downtown is turning into decadence central for hipsters, shysters, geeksters and scenesters. Tommy, again in the drivers seat, expert at bringing out the hedonist in me. We spent a Saturday on the Standard roof, shooting each other with Super Soakers that looked like sowing machines and drinking champagne. It also made for some pretty swanky photographs of yours truly. As the most un-photogenic guy I know - I got that from my mother, YES YOU!! - it was nice to see that even I can look human on camera once in a while. The man behind the sophisticated image taking tool was Jiro, event photographer extraordinaire.


Now what did I forget? I went through driving school after being pulled over for the warrant on the former owner, took my first HIV-test which basically means you think you have AIDS for a week while you wait, I've been the subject of utter humiliation and ego trips, I got the worst case of athlete's foot ever that took a month of limping to cure, my car died and I sold it for the grand total of 125 bucks, I played a gay Mormon and got mad props... total typecast, I saw the Hi-def Final Cut of Blade Runner which is still the greatest movie ever made, I've started DJ'ing with Tommy under the name MC Gyver - funk and soul which I never seem to tire of, I've gotten a new roommate - Ross - who get the easy going person of the year award, I got a subtitling job that could pay me through Norway, I bought the first season of Ultraman which you should see before you die, I bought a turquoise Member's Only jacket from the eighties - I don't know what went into me, I am the proud owner of THE SHOES that Rivers wears in the new Weezer video Pork and Beans (I suspect they are what gave me athlete's foot), I've been doing rent a room karaoke introducing A-ha to those unbeknownst to it's greatness and I joined the YMCA to trim some of that fat off my ass, working out actually works if you do it. Fuck Atkins and Fedon. Gi meg en ribba måltrost, boller og råkost.

Whatchamacallit!

Yeah. I know. There and back again by Dildo Haggis, fabled blog of the ancients, has been overlooked by the author for far too long and unlike fine wine has aged sour, its historic value left moldy and passe. I'm not gonna lie about it, the writer in me has been a lazy bastard as of late. No more excuses! You wanted news, and now you're gonna get'em. Boring as they may be! Get a cup of caffeinated drink of choice and strap yourself in.

I bought some pants a month ago. I wear them quite often! Other than that there's definitely been things afoot. School is still a huge time swallower, but I think I'm learning still. I feel like I'm going through phases, learning more about myself as I progress. The position of favorite teacher has shifted over and over and the crown has settled on the magical Hedy Sontag. This woman embodies the wisdom and mania to breathe inspirational life into a 26 year old rapscallion from Tromsø. As the work we do in class is often highly personal, the trust issue is key, and I have an easier time dealing with trauma of yorne in front of this Queen of Drama (not to be mistaken for the loosely used term drama queen, I know a fair share of those too, but they will not be mentioned in this blurb). If you don't know what the hell I'm talking about when I say dealing with trauma, I am simply addressing what the work is basically about, bringing back and reliving experiences from ones past, in order to evoke behavioral reactions that will color the nature of the performance. If successful one will find that the words and life of any given scene will unfold quite differently than if you were to "play" it. Or in laments terms, if you're really having a good or horrendous time up there, it'll show. Mrs. Sontag has been a shepherd through many a rough patch and knows me better then the rest of the faculty cast.

WOW! What the hell is going on with me. That was the most pompous shit I've ever written. The pen really is sharper than the sword, and way less entertaining obviously.

I had a rough last week of the semester, sick for the first time in the US, I hauled my pale rump to school, for a day of half-assed performances and the reprimand of a lifetime. One of my teachers called my display garbage and bullshit. Pretty fucking harsh I tell thee. In retrospect I think it was mostly a scare tactic from his part, as I've been a good boy for the rest of the semester, but given the horrible performance he might have been afraid that I had become to comfortable and lazy. He might have been right, when it comes to this particular incident. Laziness is inexcusable and I'm glad he gave me a heads up. Still there's not a lot of educational value in the word garbage. I have to remind myself sometimes that the certain individuals of the teaching staff at the institute sometimes fall into the egomaniac category of humans. We are after all dealing with actors here. The lowest form of the human species! This page is really a mirror to the soul for me. Thank you blog - waste basket of rotten food for thought.

A lot of straying Norwegians have stopped by lately! The balls from which I sprung, or my dad for short came accompanied by my 10 year old brother and wife Bente. In one week we managed to squeeze every tourist attraction in town into the schedule, and still have time for coffee and biscuits. I love them. Don't get too much family time when you're on the other side of the world. We went ballistic in Disneyland and later Universal Studios. I haven't been to a theme park in years, and I've forgotten how much of a pussy I am when it comes to rides. Luckily my brother was there so the danger level of the entertainment kept itself inside the PG limit. Some rides stood out - The INCREDIBLE Star Tours! Star Wars themed space ship flight to Endor. Jesus. I can now die a happy man! The came Terminator 3D. Oh my God. With Arnold, who needs method actors!? Set inside a gigantic dome, armed with the dorkiest glasses since Mark Mothersbaugh made the scene, we witnessed the fall of Cyberdyne at the hands of a Austrian robot and his boy. Beats a wild night of Kama Sutra sex any time. After all, who needs to procreate when the world will be nuked and inhabited by robots in the year 1997 anyway.

Hanging with the fam provided a good chance for me to show them my local hot spots and my unmatched chauffeur skills! My brother pushed the physical limits of how much pancake a not fully grown human can consume. Honestly man, that boy can thanks his lucky stars he was born millions of miles away from the most fattening food culture in the world. No wonder people are larger than life over here. Everything is so good and full of fat! God... Maybe my inner obese child brought me here. Who knows?! Don't question my ways!

We're getting a new roommate soon, as Jonathan is leaving for London for 4 months. I'll miss that home schooled Beetlejuice lookalike cobbler. Him and Tommy has proven more than friends and I'm gonna be crying myself to sleep when I leave this place. Fuck!! I can't believe I'm not gonna be here longer than June. We gotta do something about that. Marriage anyone?

Age of Inland Empires

I don't update much, do I. Sorry about the lack of penmanship in January! Guess I just wasn't feeling it. That doesn't mean nothing happened though. On the well lit melodramatic stage that is my LA life, danger and, uh, the opposite of danger often rears its unshaven mug.

First off, let's address the blissful paranoia of being pulled over. That's right! I have now had the honor of meeting the LA County Sheriff's department face to face on numerous occasions. I was cruising down Santa Monica Boulevard at 11pm, howling to the stereo, when a sudden feeling of being trailed overcame me! Like a German homing missile with lights on it the cops were on my tail, signaling first by turning on two red lights and as I muttered "Don't turn the siren on, don't turn the siren on", they turned the siren on. Two rapid whoop whoops told me to pull over. Frozen stiff in my seat I assumed the role of worried white child lost in big city. A knock on my window. I wound it down and spotted a beige shirt through the blinding light of the flashlight straight to my face. The silhouette spoke "I don't suppose you're Chang Won Bak, by any chance"? Apparently a former owner of my stunning 1993 Mazda MX-6 has A FRIGGIN WARRANT OUT ON HIM! Having explained this to me the cop told me this was a problem only I could fix, by getting new plates at the DMV, my home away from home. I suppose it's too hard for the gentlemen in blue to erase the criminal's name off of my plates, thereby sparing me the cost and hassle of replacing them. The following week I got pulled over again for the same reason, and this time I took the hint. Armed with screwdrivers I dove into the bureaucratic hellhole on Hollywood and Western and luckily I got the sweetest old Mexican this side of the Rio Grande. She hooked me up with a couple of sparkling new plates to go along with the, get this, silver eagle plate casing that came with the car! I am now officially the master of my own mobile post-cooked-lobster-colored Japanese domain. Feels good, damn good. I am even convinced the car runs better now.

I also turned 26 in January, for those of you who remembered - I love your face! For those of you who didn't - I love your musk. Going old is not really something I think about anymore, really. Looking forward to thirty actually, not even kidding. In a sense I am done being a kid, in another I am and always will be a fucking kid it seems. The event was celebrated with a rooftop bash that lasted until 6:30 next morning with a little pick me up 12 hours later. It was a joyous occasion, but I missed the personal touch of having more people there that actually know me. Hilde, however, came from San Diego and was the only other Norwegian at my party. Hung over and giggly the next day, we played Uno and talked about why we came to the US and why we want to stay. Jonathan stepped up to the plate and made some jambalaya that blew me out of the room, that motherfucker can cook. The world of Cajun cooking is becoming a part of my life over here, and is something I intend to bring home with me eventually.
Tommy took me out the next day! I'm trying this new fad, called Sushi. Apparently it's raw fish served with rice. A place on 1st called East has dollar tuna and dollar salmon on designated days. Hot sake and Sapporo helps one get over the Nazi waiter. Having discovered this place, my intake of fish has tripled and I feel full of Omega-3. Mom would be proud!

The rest of my time is occupied by classes and rehearsals. An unhealthy amount of hours are spent in the tight quarters at Strasberg every week. Having picked different classes this semester I am met with new challenges and different interpretations of the method. Some agree with me, some definitely don't. To not overextend myself in terms of workload I took a class called Beginner Film Fighting. This proved to be one of the better decisions I have made over here, as I am understanding a lot in terms of asserting myself and not wimping out, which has been a problem in the latter years. My Sensei is none other than Benny The Jet Urquidez. Fighter of the year in 1978, film fight choreographer extraordinaire and star of numerous Jackie Chan classics! He is teaching us basic fighting stances and maneuvers used in film as well as whipping my procrastinating ass into shape! Check him out - the guy who's not Jackie.

West Coast Driveby

Holy Cybernetic Ghost of Christmas Past From the Future that was fast. My Norwegian brethren have left for the airport and I am alone with my thoughts for the first time in two weeks. Though it's undeniable dork proof that I immediately ran for the computer, I have to get this down before it's ancient history.
For those oblivious to my Xmas '07 plans, here's the scoop: On December 16th I got on a plane to Seattle, only to embark on the road trip of a lifetime. My partners in crime, the K-brothers Andreas and Fredrik. Over the next week we would journey down the west coast of in a rental car starting from the cold rainy state of Washington, penetrating the phallic forests of Oregon and winding up in sunny California. The result, hedonistic behavior in three states and more existential conversations than you can throw a Bible at. The fellowship of Ring 3 visited Seattle, North Bend, Portland, Crescent City, San Francisco, Los Angeles and yes, San Diego - where the Santas are Swedish and the SeaWorld Otter Show is not to be missed. I wouldn't dream of putting everything that happened into this illiterate blog, but GOSH DARN IT I'll try!

Our story begins in a little town called

Seattle
Them be smarter up North. The average Seattlian is definitely a different species than your typical LA guy. Converging on buses, these environmentally aware scholars pair up on the benches, armed with coffees and books. I guess the humidity keeps them on their toes, it was raining constantly for 3 days. Bergen-like weather probably did me good, I'm spoiled in the that department these days. Getting out of a cab on Capitol Hill, the streets reminded me of the reindeer splattered neighborhoods of Home Alone 1. This area used to be the hippie part of town according to Andreas, now heavily populated by homosexuals and hipsters. Though, as gentrification goes, it eventually attracted the cash heavy wannabe hipsters that would pay top dollar to live in a "happening" area, ultimately driving the broke artist community out. The newspaper said there was an uprising of violence against homosexuals, when some of the newer residents suddenly realized they moved to a gay neighborhood. Gentrification, gaytrification. Potato, potato (Wait! That expression does not work in written form!)

Andreas' place was great, a four bedroom house that he shared with fellow students. Once accommodated we quickly ventured out to explore the nightlife and went wild in some of the better bars I've seen in the states. Chop Suey and The Something kept up happy for the night! Dollar fifty beers, talkative employees and red. Lot's of red. Lucha paintings over the doors and Gremlins on big screen. Doesn't get more Christmasy than that!

They morning after our host took us to see the Downtown area to show us one of his favorite buildings, the Central Library. An intricate maze of knowledge and vertigo it was! Between the many skyscrapers it stuck out like a loose anomaly in a rigid environment. Yellow escalators took us to the top, and the thousand diamond shaped windows played mind tricks on me. There is definitely logic to what appears to be chaos.



For lunch we had a horrendous meal at the diner that Tom Hanks hangs out at in Sleepless in Seattle. Buried in the Pike Place Fish Market the rustic charm of the place still made up for the lacking cuisine. As we passed through the corridors of the marketplace crabs were flying in the freshly filled crustacean booths, so if you ever go there you'll be amazed at the juggling skills of your average butcher! See!

Next on the agenda was climbing Seattle's boner. The Space Needle stood there in all its glory and for a sixteen dollar elevator ride we could gaze upon the city landscape through bloodshot eyes. I celebrated this victory by taking the days first dump in the middle of the tower. Totally worth 16 bucks! Aren't you glad you're still reading my insightful blog?

The next day we went to pick up our cheap Hyundai Accent rental. Lady luck had apparently turned her head, so they were all out and we got a Chevy Impala instead! A lush automobile that would later overcome erosion and an the incredible lack of driving skill demonstrated by yours truly.
It might have been a moronic idea to set out on a road trip of monumental proportion only a month after getting my license, but I believe in paradigm breaking and out of the box thinking and that's precisely the kind of naivety that can get a guy killed! And that's the only kind of naivety I like! HAHAHA! /cry

The plan at hand was simple: Get to Twin Peaks, and fast!! Just half an hour from the big city lies North Bend, a quaint rural community that was the location for history's greatest TV-show. Twede's Cafe, the place where Agent Cooper get his coffee and pie promised great things for a visit. When we got there however, the place had been completely rebuilt after a fire some years ago and looked nothing like the diner I've come to love. Sad really. The coffee and pie were both, in the lack of a better word - shit... I wouldn't dream to criticize Kyle McLaughlan's taste, but rather applaud his acting if he was served the same thing we were (he must be method!). La-di-da. I'm turning into a pretentious negative douche here... ehh... the waitress was hot. So they got one thing right! (Not as hot as Shelley though! Whine whine!)

We sped onto the misty highway and set a course for... WAIT FOR IT!!!

Portland (there you go)
I love King Cobra. He must be the most happy go lucky person I know. Keeping in contact since we first met in San Francisco, he turned out to be a groovy host, showing us the Portland underworld and the finest restaurant I've ever been to, Le Bistro Montage. Cajun cooking blows my mind. Something about spice, garlic and wine that puts juice in my funnybone. During the hour we were there, we might as well have been on the other side of the continent in the bosom of Louisiana. Bits of alligator, jambalaya and authentic gourmet macaroni and cheese melted this blue eyed boy's heart and physique.
It was Tuesday night and the few people that were out congregated inside the insane amount of dive bars spread throughout the city. With a thousand yard stare Kansas Steve must have taken us to at least 15 bars that night, one crazier than the next. Portland has a huge music scene, because of the overwhelming amount of stages and the cheap real estate. Gotta love those odds. It's also the location of Powell's Books, the biggest bookstore in the west. The K-brothers being heavy readers, persuaded me to go and we spent two hours in the place, getting lost in each section. Fredrik who reads at light speed and must have blasted through five books on the road alone. Good on him. We said goodbye to King Cobra in the morning and headed South.

With no particular travel plan we stayed on the I-5, the fastest interstate on the West Coast. When we reached the mountains our path was hindered by an element soon forgotten. Snow. God I hate that shit. There are no winter tires in this country, they use chains instead. Not wanting to put chained metal spikes on the wheels of a rental car, we quickly rerouted to different highway that would lead us to the coast. This is where it gets exiting. Halfway into unknown territory we came to an abrupt halt. A rock slide blocked the path in front of us, boulders and mud leaking into the road. A self-proclaimed ranger was playing hero in the midst of it, tossing rocks aside attempting to clear the path. In an act of retarded bravery me and Fredrik exited the car and tried to help him. Andreas perhaps had a clearer view of things, and as more rocks started coming down and slid out towards us, we were commanded back in the car and attempted to turn around and get out of there. The first car passed through the semi-cleared path, however, and making a hasty choice I decided to do the same. Perhaps it was the adrenaline doing the thinking, seeing how potentially dangerous the situation was. I doubt I would have done the same again. Luckily we got out of there in one piece, the car unscratched. With an eerie vibe in the car, we could feel the ominous silhouettes of giant redwoods passing on each side. From time to time the rain would stop because the vegetation above us was too thick for it to drip through. I was tensing up at the wheel. Time to stop and sleep.
The first town to greet us was just after the border to California. Crescent City. Not much to say about it. For us it was all about finding the cheapest motel, and Econo Lodge fit the bill. Since We decided to get up at 7am and get most of the day's driving done in the morning.

Northern California looked amazing in daylight. Giant pine trees and elks decorated the landscape. We passed through one derelict ghost town now and then, commenting on the abundance of land in this country. You can actually disappear here. We stopped for food, gas and CD's at a nameless small town halfway to San Fran. With the best of The Turtles banging on the stereo, the next 5 hours felt like 4 and a half! As traffic grew denser we could knew we were close to our next goal. And suddenly there it lay.

San Francisco
The city looked encased in some kind of mythical haze, viewed from the far side of the Golden Gate Bridge. Joyous cursing was heard throughout the vehicle. You can help but murmur some no-no words at the beauty of this place. The hypnotizing architecture enhanced by the whopping topography is unlike any other place on earth. Having some hours to spend before we could meet up with Andreas' friend, we parked the car in the Golden Gate Park and did the De Young thing. It was a second time for me, but the view from the top floor was still awe inspriring. On the way out the guard in the door made a joke about the three of us looking like the biker gang in the 80's classic "The Lost Boys". Made sense at the time.
We then went Haight Street, trying on cheap clothes in the many thrift stores and each wound up with some weird shit. At 7pm we jumped in the car again and headed for Jeff's parent's place that lay in one of the many areas that begin with the word San. We were greeted at the door by this caroling family, practicing for this years production of Requiem on their baby grand. We had a couple of beers in San Mateo then went to sleep in soft beds!

The following morning after beefing up on scrambled eggs, we went down to Haight Street again, to fulfill Fredrik's dream of testing every shoe on this continent. The day passed quickly and when the sun started setting we made our way downtown to the Mission District, my favorite part of town. Dive bars, homeless and shysters all over. That evening I was the designated driver for the first time in my life, and let me tell you it sucks beyond proportion. I am never living in a suburb. Not until I'm old and gray/gay.

When will this blog end!!!! Too much info.. Too lazy to finish writing it!!!

The next day consisted of the lengthiest car ride of my life. We drove for 11 hours, pulling into Downtown Los Angeles around 9pm. Fredrik announced to his friend Daniel, who happens to be Owen Wilson's cousin, that we were in town and ready to roll. The night turned out to be one for the history books. After doing some serious Korean dining, we set a course for the Standard Hotel and it's rooftop bar, that lies amidst the sea of skyscrapers in the Business District. With a classic TGM movie being projected on the wall building next door, an infinity pool and Japanese rich guys coming out the yin-yang, you can't get a better feel for the LA scene in this part of town.
One overpriced drink later we were back in Daniel's car headed for a bar in Silver Lake. The place was rugged and androgynous rocker stereotypes filled the room around us. One of them knew Daniel from before. He told us to check out a party in Culver City and feeling way too up for it we went, hoping for more upscale bliss! After 20 minutes on the I-10 we exited into a quiet suburban neighborhood. Leaving the car we could here the dampened sound of what appeared to be some kind of punk band coming from the address in question. When we got in the door, I again, as I have many times over here, felt like the whitest person alive. We were outsiders in a toned down Mexican teen party, a band of three playing random emo hits in the corner. We took obnoxious photographs of ourselves and were out of there in a jiffy. When we got back to our pad, we found Tommy and his gathering in our pad. We ate ice cream until we passed out. Lovely!

The drive to San Diego is two hours, which to an experienced driver such as myself IS NOTHING!! BEEEYOOOTCH!! Once there we finally met up with Hilde as planned. This being the day before Christmas, she had decided that we would spend the 24th celebrating xmas the Swedish way, with some pilots she new from said country. And sure enough we did. Funny people the Swedes. These techno music loving all year tan SAUSAGE ON CHRISTMAS eating funny remark nudge nudge type emigrants provided us with a great feast! Honestly, we freeloaded that party like K-Fed during the Toxic days. (Pop reference y'all!) At least we brought some wine and a bourbon. They even supplied us with that prince of beverages, the akvavit. It contributed immensely to my sudden urge to dance when we later hit the town. Before that however, we suffered trough the dubbed version of the Disney Christmas Special. Funny how every character sounds like and old man in Scandinavia. Then we got a visit from Santa Claus. Literally. One of the dudes bothered dressing up and handed out presents in a nice manner. I must admit I found that pretty swell. I got two pens. Huzzah! Am I sounding ungrateful. I assure you it's just the way you're reading it.

Hilde rocks, for the record. Not just because she reads this blog, but because she puts up with three random douche bags for four days, building forts in her living room. She chauffeured us around as if we were royalty and we got to see the beach, The Salk Institute and La Jolla. We even rode the merry-go-round in a marketplace downtown and went to SeaWorld. The main attraction, Shamu - the killer whale, was to busy for us, but we caught a glimpse of him posing it up for some eager Germans. We also sat in on the amazing Sea Lion and Otter Show. This left me with a heavy heart as these animals have skills I will never possess. Like the skill of being a sea lion or an otter. The next day we decided to have our own little gift giving ceremony and I wound up with some great stuff. I got 4 books, yo! One on skyscrapers, one about different artists, On The Road by Jack Kerouac and Breakfast At Tiffany's by Capote. Zing!

And so it was that the voyage of a thousand kilometers came to a halt. The memories many, the feeling of accomplishment enormous! I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Andreas and Fredrik for their impeccable companionship. Spending every waking moment together can be a tedious affair, but we managed to get along at all times. The lonely child in me needs to be challenged at times, and thankfully they put up with me, pissy remarks and all. I wish them both the best of luck in Seattle and Bergen. Go forth and multiply!!

Epilogue
Some things were left out of this post for obvious reasons, but some honorable mentions will now follow in a fast paced manner. Such as: the hideous Science Fiction Museum next to the Space Needle, when Fredrik lost his ipod, when Fredrik lost his credit cards, when Fredrik lost his innocence in Hollywood, exploring the Embarcadero in San Fran, playing California Games on the NES in the Mission Disctrict, the fruit market in the middle of nowhere, when we went to The Eames House, when we went to The Schindler House, the rooftop "Nå hører du her!" session, the original Amoeba Records Store on Haight, ice skating in Pershing Square, dollar tuna and dollar salmon at East on 1st Street, the steak at Pete's, the Animal Style burger and Neapolitan shake from In-N-Out Burger, getting lost in the Barmuda Triangle- Charlie O's, Bar 107 and La Cita and last but not least the amazing new year after party dress up session! Good times, good times.

So don't tell me I don't do stuff, OK! I am after all making up for four years of procrastination here! To those back in the old country, I still miss you when I'm in my bed curled up in the fetus position, alone in a city full of strange and sometimes scary magic! Merry Christmas ya bastards! Hope the packages were hard. I know mine is!! GET IT!!??

PS: Check the book of faces fer photos later. AND! Look what I did:
View Larger Map

San Fran Roundtrip For Dummies

Ahh.. Thanksgiving. The time of year when Americans give heed to the illustrious feast between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans. Average folk migrate in numbers over state lines in order to cuddle up with mom's freshly stuffed fowl. Long I have dreamed of pressing my lips into the crevice of a succulent roast and feel the basted ingredients stream down my clefty chin. And because I am the luckiest fuck this side of the Mississippi I actually got the chance this year. Maybe not in such a graphic manner, but I nonetheless had a traditional turkey dinner with everything, even pumpkin pie which I can tell is the bees knees. The gastronomical bliss actually made me forget about the Indians suffering lifetimes of oppression, being forced off their land and wiped out, later having to live in reservations to uphold their fading cultural heritage. That's how good it was. May well be a conspiracy of foods!

Me and my often mentioned roommate Jonathan got up at 3am to set out on the train ride from LA to San Francisco. Cheap tickets from AMTRAK would get us there. The train however proved to be the lesser part of the trip, as we were mostly directed onto buses. It was an inland trip, LA to Bakersfield to Stockton to San Fran. Cruising through orchards I could slowly see the vegetation shift from the dry rock of Southern California to the temperate and green north. It felt close to home. It was a tedious ride as the train seemed to go at paralympic speed. Jonathan explained: "These tracks are privately owned, so freight trains are always prioritized, therefore every commercial train ride is slow as shit". Figures. Eventually we made it to Stockton. Of all the seedy places I've been to, this one takes the cake. The scenery was post apocalyptic. Apparently a lot of prisons thrive in this part of California. We soon found ourself sharing the bus with ex convicts fresh out of jail. They were all wearing the same outfit, a manila envelope and a cane. I guess few people make it through the correctional system without getting messed up in some physical manner. *flinch* Armed with an ipod and sunglasses I kept to myself for the rest of the trip and soon got off by the Ferry Building of San Francisco, greeted by my Uncle John (who will from now on be referred to as UJ and sometimes even John).

John immediately took me to see my relatives. My 94 year old great aunt, uncle Fred, his wife Dorothy and their two kids Chris and Jennie. I felt like the scruffy ghost of Christmas past having not showered in 36 hours. But thanks to the miracle of caffeine and a luxurious gold studded shitter I was soon fresher than Fran Drescher. That's Nanny Fine YO! Fred and John must have come from separate testicles as they were almost complete opposites personality wise. This lead to a healthy amount of rude comments around the table. Once the bird was out of the oven we watched the game and gained weight. I used what little knowledge I had of the NFL to converse about other things than Norway, seals and whales. I grew tired of talking about the old country on my first day in the states and as you can imagine the questions were many. After digging into the pumpkin pie I found myself out of breath. I always overdo it during the holidays. Soon I found myself on the road again in UJ's sweet Volvo heading for Palo Alto.

BTW. Get your reading glasses boy, this blog is long.

Palo Alto is a place you go to live. My uncle settled there many years ago when it wasn't only for people with skid marks on their credit cards. It's a quiet place and the suburban part of it is surrounded by thick and finally - authentic green vegetation. Keep in mind that northern California is the location of Endor, the Ewok forest. Especially you mom, that reference is so you. A big part of the town is the community belonging to Stanford University. A place of great brains and greater funding. Us poor are allowed to cruise around campus, though. And so we did, we even stopped by the museum that held many of the early minimalist pieces that came out of SoCal after the war. The place altogether was pretty awe inspiring. God, I wanna go there. Perhaps in another lifetime.

It's a slow paced life hanging out with people over 60. A speed that suited me well after stressing like Ranch Dressing in West Hollywood. We stopped by some of John's old hippie friends and I had my second turkey dinner served with a side of mind bending philosophical questions. New Age questions about life is definitely something to ponder upon if you have an open mind about that sort of thing, said the atheist. Mwell.. maybe I'm becoming agnostic.

After two days of gluttony and existential conversations the time for goodbyes was at hand. UJ dropped me off in Golden Gate Park. I roamed around for an hour, stopped by the De Young Museum, but I was too stressed out to really enjoy it. I sometimes baffle myself at the lack of interest I have when introduced to 200 year old stuff. Too much coffee or ADD I guess. I parked my carcass on a bench until Jonathan showed up with his wild and opinionated possy of locals. In a rebuilt greyhound bus, equipped with everything but a self cleaning oven, we cruised around the park until we found a place to play. (The ride reminded me of the infamous Love Goat, bus of the ages. May it not be purged - but thrive at the hands of sinful yuppie puppies from Northstrand!!) Field games are fun. Especially when there's Corona involved. The games of choice were Egg Toss, Egg Running, Sack Race, Tug-o-war and the oddly named Chug-o-war. The latter was only for multitaskers with unquenchable thirst.
After two hours everyone was at a state of geriatric fatigue. Time for nutrition! Another day, another turkey dinner. Suffice it to say that I've had my fill of facially unaesthetic bird for the year. The evening went by at lightning speed and alarming amounts of intoxicating beverages were consumed. Jonathan AKA Horse Feather introduced me to one of his buddies from the south. Kansas Steve AKA King Cobra. We played dart and talked about Portland. Twas a fine time! I wound up with the trucker name Mudd Flaps (the reason escapes me. Filthy man boobs come to mind).

The morning after we went to lunch and quickly found out that we needed to take it slow for the day. After countless hours on the couch watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force we went to dinner on Hate Street, the old hippie part of town. Again we met great people. One of them is a publicist working for a bunch of lawyers who after receiving their law degrees found out that they didn't want to be lawyers... Go figure! They now make do-it-yourself books for immigrants, one of which is "How to get a green card". I persuaded her to send me a copy. Hopefully I can put it to good use! For those of you who don't know, a green card provides non-American citizens with a lot of rights you cannot get on a regular visitor or student visa. Like the opportunity to work legally. It would be nice to be able to pay my own bills in the long run and not worry about getting the IRS or Immigration on my back. Obtaining visas is a tedious paper mill that I don't want to go through again. I imagine however that the green card process might the peak of bureaucracy. Should be worth it, however. More on this as it progresses.

Early Monday morning we got back on the train and swished through the countryside at walking speed, again having to deal with Stockton and sociopathic bus drivers. Ahhh...merica. My grand children will definitely hear of this - provided my sperm quality hasn't degenerated to a lifeless kefir-like state. On that positive note I bid you a fine night of rest in an angels crest, and cross my chest at your behest. See you in space gangsters!

Where Art Thou!!

I went loco for MOCA today. That's the Museum Of Contemporary Art you effing ignoramus! Located Downtown, right by the Disney Concert Hall, it is one of many galleries that contribute in making this part of town the place to go for art buffs. Using Peter's membership card I got into two exhibitions free of charge, which suits me fine. The first was Gordon Matta-Clark's "You are the measure". Fascinating stuff. From one regular schmo to another, what he basically does is cut holes through buildings. He then takes pictures of the rooms from different angles and combine these photos to create the same rooms but with a distorted perspective. The style reminded me of Escher in a way. Clever guy this Matta-Clark. He should do art or take pictures of holes through buildings or something.

Next up was the Murakami exhibit. Remember his name. You'll be seeing him in the future whether you like it or not. To mention one thing, he designed the latest Louis Vuitton handbag line. An LV shop was set up inside the exhibit so as you can imagine the place was packed with people with fat wallets and a license to spend.
The non consumer based side of his art show was the one to blow minds though. His take on Japanese pop culture, or rather expansion of the J-pop and J-art genres. Some pieces depicted stereotypical Anime figures. Like in regular Anime, certain body parts were immensely exaggerated. He however took it one step further, making them ultra pornographic. Though the Japanese are advanced when it comes to their comic book stimuli and virtual sexual icons, these pieces seemed to me a great way to comment on the obvious vulgarisms and banality of the Anime genre. Saying this however does not make me against the obvious vulgarisms and banality of the Anime genre. I'm just saying, you know, it works or something. Yeah.


His other work was a mind trip. Brain melting color choices were sight for hungry eyes. Murakami has been mentioned as a new Andy Warhol on several occasions, because his art is not just art, but also just a depiction of modern Japanese culture. Ehh.. he says it better: "When I consider what Japanese culture is like, the answer is that it is all subculture. Therefore, art is unnecessary". -T. Murakami. So: "When I consider what Murakami said, the answer is that I will paste his words in my blog to seem cultivated. Therefore, I am unnecessary". -Me

Apart from these huge galleries, there are also plenty of small ones spread around the city. I finally dragged my ass to Gallery 1988, a place I've been following online for years. It was fucking great. Totally worth an f-bomb. I brought home a fresh copy of their publication Hi-Fructose and tore the pages out and stuck them to the wall. 5 bucks is my budget when it comes to fine decorating.
Another place worth mentioning is the Ghetto Gloss in Silver Lake. Every Thursday there's a new exhibit with punch by the gallon served to you by a man in a gorilla suit. Don't ask. They also have frozen bananas. GET IT!? Monkey and bananas!! Whatever, the place still rocks socks.
Set up by fanboys, these petite art shows have become the scene for up and coming painters and sculptors allowing them to test out their stuff and to thrive in a young city, where crazy shit like theirs is actually appreciated. If I were a rich man, these artists would no longer be poor nor struggling. Sucks for them that I'm not.

What is busy?

Hey sexies. Long time no read.

The last two weeks have swished by without a second to spare for recreational blogging. I guess I'm getting into a kind of routine here. But as I keep getting questions about what I'm REALLY doing over here, I'll try to fill you in on the everyday patterns of my wasteful existence. Since most of my time is spent at school, the remaining minutes of the week falls into the two categories: "Weekend self destruction" and "OCD meals".

It's hard to break the viking habit of meaningless weekend boozing. I in fact welcome it as a reward for ending a week of "acting but not acting". Although science has proven that the brain is never full, I might be an anomaly, for mein kopf is certainly at a collapsing point come Friday. I seldom hang out with people from Strasberg's after hours, mostly guys and girls from Sci Arc. Architects have proven to be great conservationists and heavy drinkers. They're also busy like no other students I've met, so a collective toast at the end of the week proves to be the best punctuation on all parts.

OK, as far as the obsessive compulsive shit goes; every morning starts like this: Wake up, bowl of Special K + an apple + one Kavli knekkebrød with jam. This is why. Moving to the US presented me with one overbearing fear. Becoming a fat ass retard. I don't know about the retard part, but my fat ass is held in place by this very healthy breakfast and sometimes repeated lunch... I figure as long as I eat healthy shit during the week, I can binge on the weekends and be alright. Food is a weird thing over here as going to the grocery store is pretty much just as expensive as eating out. I think I can count the number of times I've actually made myself dinner on one finger. Pathetic I know, but when a world of weird tastes are within free delivery range you just have to go for it. I actually save money when ordering Thai food. Me and my roommates in crime swear by one restaurant and one restaurant alone. That place of culinary orgasms known only as: Charm! I believe I have been put on this earth to get a "The usual"? relationship to this place. Pad Thai, Kee Mow, Panang. No, I'm not quoting imperatives from old Batman episodes (dry joke much!!??). These meals have broadened my taste and pretty much scorched off my taste buds by now. If you won't take my word for it, just read these professional endorsements! YEAH!!

Let's for the sake of interest say that I have very few friends on this side of the world. It's true, they don't come as a bonus with the plane ticket. Therefore I take great pleasure in the company of one of my roommates: Jonathan, and our Saturday ritual lunch. He has introduced me to the new and very gluttonous world of Breakfast in America. If there's one thing I've learned about this country it's that you've never leave a table wanting more. More often it's staggering away in search for air or a place to empty your bowels. (A big minus on the charming, sorry ladies (though I've been told that you also defecate once every full moon! (just wanted to use a triple parenthesis))). A place called The Brite Spot in Silver Lake is quickly becoming a favorite lunch stop. I brought my brother Torbjørn there when he visited me two weekends ago. He had the pancakes with maple syrup and butter. They will prove the death of him. I had the Denver omelet. It will prove the death of me. That's how we eat round here, mothafuckas! I had a great time with him, we rode the elevator at the Wells Fargo Hotel from the 1st to the 34th floor in 15 seconds. Sweet. He later presented me with Brunost and Mills Kaviar. Thank Jehovah for family!

On that note, I leave you once again. There might still be some random bullshit to come... Who knows. Just me. Gratulerer med dagen Jon og Mette. Holla at yer bitch, and don't itch the stitch near the Wrath of the Lich Kings kitsch light switch. EHHHHHH!