.... for three (THREE!) weeks... that's what it takes to open up a broadband connection in an apartment in Bergen that's already hooked up with all the right equipment and wires and cables and whatever else it takes, but since nobody cares to be efficient around here, both mr. Teen and I have to wait, wait, wait... (yes, all the neighbors have locked their wireless networks..we've both been there, tried that..)
Why I am here, in this city again? Help...
Barrista, while preparing a latte: "So, what do you think of the news paper?"
Customer: "I don't like it. I'm a creative writer - more so I am a poet. There is no fucking room for a poet in the paper."
Silence.
Barrista, looking up: "There is no room for a fucking poet anywhere."
This story from the Boston Globe is quite fantastic:
-LaChania Govan said she got bounced around by her cable company when she called to complain. She made dozens of calls and was even transferred to a person who spoke Spanish -- a language she doesn't understand.But when she got her August bill from Comcast she had no trouble understanding she'd made somebody mad. It was addressed to "Bitch Dog."
Of course, Comcast has a very interesting explanation:
"We only use the actual customers names on the bill," said Patricia Andrews-Keenan, a Comcast spokeswoman.
Thanks to these two, impressive gentlemen!
My cousin is dead. He was in his early twenties and it shouldn't have happened. The last memory I have of him is blurry, he is standing somewhere in front of me, tilting his head towards me, calling me. I can't remember what he said. There were kids running around us, making noise. Waiting for my response, his immensely blue eyes were smiling; lips curled upwards, dark hair shining. He looked so different, so much older, and I had not seen him in a long time. I looked down, catching a glimpse of his tall, lean silhouette, and then my memory fades.
I don't know what else to say, it breaks my heart.
Researchers in Britain claims that the higher a female's intelligence, her changes of marriage is less likely (link in Norwegian). She can't find men who are interesting enough!
But - they also claim that smart men don't want intelligent women, but a "copy of their mum, doing house chores" (how insulting: mothers of men aren't very smart?).
And of course, unlike women... men with a higher I.Q increases their chance of getting married.
We were sitting around the table, thinking about what to order. Mr. Teen and I had a lengthy discussion: Would he like the General Gau's Chicken, or Chicken with Sesame Seed?
The waitress won't let us have a small tasting plate. "We don't do that here" she smiles gently, shaking her head. Instead, she engages in a complicated explanation of what each dish has to offer. "VERY tasty" she adds dramatically, after both dishes. That makes the choice very easy, it seems. Mr. Teen flips the menu page and orders Chicken with Lotus Seed.Very Tasty! She smiles.
"Let's have a drink to celebrate!" my ex husband says, cheerily. Doug passed an important exam and is going for a super secret agent interview in September. Double Celebration! "Coke!" orders Mr. Teen. "Singapore Sling!" adds Doug, nodding at me, "want one?"
"May I see your ID," asks the waitress when I want one, too.
"What....?" I exclaim, confused. "My ID?" What is that about. The waitress explains that one has to be 21 to order alcohol. "I know" I grumble, fumbling through my wallet looking for my ID.
In the US, this is your driver's license, but in Norway, you may also use your bankcard. I can't get out of this habit. I live just across the street and I don't have a car. It just so happens, then, that my license is not in my wallet. My bankcard is. But she doesn't want it, even with a picture and a birth date. "I don't have my licence," I apologize. The waitress thinks this is suspicious, obviously. "Surely, you must see that I am older than 21! " I sigh, rumaging through my handbag one more time for my license.
"NO." said the waitress with a cold voice.
"Listen," I begin, patiently. I explain that we're here to celebrate my son's thirteenth birthday. Does he look 13? She thinks so. Then some easy math will tell you I'm older than 21, I suggest politely. "You're his MUM???" The waitress eyes grow big, she gets loud, and people are beginning to turn to see what's going on over here. She stares at Mr. Teen.
"I am your mum!" I beg Mr. Teen to tell her. But he looks to Doug, who mischievously whisper:" This is when you tell her you've never seen this woman in your life!" into his innocent, but more than willing ear. A short silence now, but soon Mr. Teen's voice brumbles load and clear:
"I've never seen this woman in MY LIFE". He looks up at the waitress with a very serious expression. She looks back at me, annoyed. Oh for God's sake! I want to sink through the chair and into the floor.
Mr. Teen burst out in laughter.
"Well, ok then, but you can ONLY HAVE ONE" announces the waitress, and leaves the table.
Michael Gunn spent his first years at university plagiarizing, but got caught just before he was about to graduate. Now he is suing the university for negligence.
"I can see there is evidence I have gone against the rules, but they have taken all my money for three years and pulled me up the day before I finished."
Gunn is feeling robbed for money, I'm feeling robbed for words....
Phil Zimbardo, who was behind the Stanford Prison Experiment that got called off halfway through, makes a statement on the Iraqi prisoner situation:
The ubiquitous causal force in all this is the Evil of War, and the cover story of "National Security," and now the exaggerated fears of terrorism that have been induced by ten "credible" terror alarms is transforming our nation into a culture of victims and our soldiers into brutal abusers of other human beings.
It is amazing what people will do on public television in these "reality" days.
Be it bachelors, bachelorettes, survivors or those with big, fat, obnoxious fiances - attention and drive for money seem to motivate them all, cheered on by a hungry audience.
Here is a story from 1896 that include many of the same ingredients of today's reality shows, but one with a sadder outcome. Perhaps the lack of media coverage was a factor? How real are reality shows exactly, if we're not watching them together, simultaneously?
Desperate. Determined. Unwaveringly confident. In 1896, a Norwegian immigrant named Helga Estby dares to cross 3500 miles of the American continent to win a $10,000 wager. On Foot.
.....A mother of eight living children, she attempts to save her family's homestead in Eastern Washington after the 1893 depression had ravaged the American economy. fearing homelessness and family poverty, Helga responds to a wager from a mysterious sponsor, casts off the cultural corsets of Victorian femininity, and gambles her family's future by striking out with her eldest daughter to try to be the first women to travel unescorted across the country: independent, audacious, alert, and armed with a Smith-and-Wesson revolver.
In the end - Helga reached her destination. She made it. Together with her daughter, she walked all through America, trying to save her family's farm and bravely crossing a huge continent with no money at all, hoping for a better future.
But the sponsor refused to award her: They arrived a few days late. Helga's family lost their farm. Helga returned to her hometown, only to be an outcast, ridiculed and humiliated for her failure. For years, her story was a shame and something not to be talked about.
How Norwegian, by the way:
Don't you dare to be somebody outstanding, believe in your abilities, or even try to make your dreams come through.
